dying static hum

Thunder rumbles through the house shaking loose windows
the back door slams open and Louis C.K. is slammed down
into a ring-shaped dampening field in a desert night.

A lanky trickster glides out of the shadows
and strokes the cylinder until it rings pure
in the tones of observance the comic twitches.

A swarm of fairy folk swirl overhead,
in its wake orbs dance and fall and merge
lullabies and dusty magic explode
into a nebulous secret message
the comic pounds silently on his cell

The trickster addresses the audience,
“You know what the comedian’s fear is”
“Hecklers!” shout the audience, “writer’s block!”
“No…” says the expressionless host,
“it’s playing to a dead room.”

Nature screams acknowledgment!

It’s the difference between trying to shake loose the truth,
or documenting the location.
Everything is.

Poetry behaves in accordance to all known natural laws. That’s good, that works, and that can help us. Where we get into trouble though is the vehicle of poetry is the mind.

Take a deep sigh and shake it off,
it turns out to be a simple decision,
one that the most people fall into almost naturally.

In the case of poetry the choice is between flagellation and breathing. This decision is usually informed by ideology, in your case flip a coin.