His Tinnitus

Piccolos satanic,
tsetse screams,
some compete–
a shout of bees
drowning out
life’s intricacies.
O cry of gnat,
whimper of newt,
tap of tine,
gnash of earwig,
scrape of egg,
chalkboard-speak.

Some crackle or hum
in tainted keys
or different degrees
of rat-a-tat drum.
Ringings eat
with scintillating
no one sees.
Tubular tolling
does not cease.

One insectile
soprano a day
joins this viral,
aural plague.
Sirens are keen
to call his hoarhead
home sweet home
and dance and ting.
He doesn’t ask
why or for whom
they ring, or if
they follow at death,
but only if
they’re heard by the deaf.

***

 

Marc Darnell is a facilities tech and online tutor in Omaha NE and has also been a phlebotomist, hotel supervisor, busboy, editorial assistant, farmhand, devout recluse, and incurable brooder–  leading to near auto collisions.  He received his MFA from the University of Iowa, and has published poems in The Lyric, Eclectic Muse, Skidrow Penthouse, Shot Glass Journal, The HyperTexts, Candelabrum, Quantum Leap, Aries, Ship of Fools, Open Minds Quarterly, The Fib Review, Verse-Virtual, Blue Unicorn, and The Pangolin Review among others.