didn't find it, but check this one out. They remember it, mass media.

Pandora's House

They’re folding me

at the part in my hair

and reading me like a book,

marking a place in history,

making my face stick out,

a shout that might lead the way out.

My head is a house

in a glass box display,

my head full of breakables,

unspeakables, my head that

must soak up the overflowing currents,

and the heart that shakes.

My head is a bus.

My head is a van.

The sparks that turn the engine

take me down the superhighway,

stranded here for 11 years.

I’ve been heaped up

and heated up.

Fighting a far cry with a cry.

My head is a radio. My head is a t.v.

My head is a microwave. Everything

is on the table, who will sit down and

talk to me about this?

Then the train of my thoughts, its unnatural sound,

trying to stay ahead of itself. Now is

sick of the wow. My head is left on

a hill, left up to me to spill and then fill.

Lost and found, sights and sounds,

shredding the talk on this into song

a bird could use. Shredding the red

into stripes with white. I am the evidence,

this splitting pain, the sky’s lightning.

In the reporter’s stutter,

the secret is coming to the surface, bobbing

like a drowning soul, he had time before

it came to this, whatever stopped him,

nearly stopped my heart, now I tell the

truth for both of us.

S.G.

revised 5-27-06