The wall at the foot of the bed is a Berlin Wall
that time is chewing its way through
in print-throughs and sifting sand

If I let my gaze lose its way
across the wall of old cassette tapes
from the 1980s and 1990s,
it is heavy strata of time that I experience,
and images of myself,
leaning by radio and tape recorder
through decades of concentrated attention;
listening, noting, cataloguing:

an evening shadow bent
over the cassette inserts, densely typed
on a heavy T1 FACIT typewriter
from the Police's discarded equipment;
meticulous information:
time indications, instrumentation, musicians,
composers, etcetera,
engraved on a police-discarded
and home-transported
special T1 FACIT with microtype

The wall
with the deep wooden shelves
from the Police's old maintenance room
is a Berlin Wall that time is loosening
from its inertia;
from attacks and fade-outs,
from John Cage's silence;
from Kyzyl's xöömei symposia
and Folke Rabe's New Hour,
in overlays and print-throughs,
in crackle and hiss
and veined aging
in quantum lattices of analog evening recordings;
sand between the teeth, wax in the ears,
the evening lamps of stinging eyes
in room-spaces vibrating
with the contemporary art music of the past
through the whistling storm of time's flight
over my crown

– and the world has entrance and exit holes
and wormholes through the dimensions,
and hearts that pound the inertia
quivering like a British fruit jelly
when time stands undecided
in the middle of the floor of my southern retreat,
under DETIMEMENT's erosion
of the cassette walls