On Watching a Formerly Sane Man Descend into Abject Religion

If you read the previous post,
you know the apparatus, pictured here,
is a torture machine.

There are ten of them in our house,
purportedly to circulate air to dry out
all the problems caused by a water leak.

We live in Tucson: it has not rained
in Tucson since the Gadsden Purchase.
A mudslide the size of the one in Washington State
could course through our neighborhood
and it would be bone-dry and stone-hard
before it quit moving.

I suspect it is the CIA, and probably the Border Patrol!
We are, after all, only about a hundred miles from the border.
I fully expect a large suburban assault vehicle
to pull up to the house, and for lots of people
with UPPER CASE LETTERS on their shirts
to interrogate us, and I will have to explain that
all the drugs I use come from Walgreens and Total Wine.

But it won't work. Our minds are going.
We are getting short with each other and,
if they promise to turn off the fans,
I will confess to having invented the Arab Spring
and Second-generation Immigrant Norwegian Winter.

They will put me in jail,
and I will plead for solitary confinement
if it is quiet.
I am already sleeping on the floor.

Where are those Jehovah's Witnesses
now that I need them
to tell me that the end is near?

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