A FLOOR LAMP SIGNALS THE LAST FRENCH NAVAL TRANSMISSION OF MORSE CODE BEFORE IT’S CESSATION, FROM THE INSIDE OF A HOTEL ROOM: “CALLING ALL. THIS IS OUR LAST CRY BEFORE OUR ETERNAL SILENCE.” I head to rest my head and the rest of my body tonight in this rented bed for an eve to give up this internal catch 22 (your favorite number) while trying to figure out how to make the impossible come true drunk and fighting in hotel rooms... always in hotel rooms... always at weddings... over only what the drunk could argue over nothing; over nothing at all mixed signals from the formerly single... always and forever initiated upon returning from reception festivities we seek to speak to the things I only ever forthrightly address in titles my cries for help, your deep seeded insecurities and all the semiotic distress signals they evince the occasions occasionally summon such symptoms the symptoms from our syndrome that is our inability to communicate consistently consistent are these breakdowns and their manifestations with their extended bouts of forbearance, and then the neglect I pile on I say: if nothing is going to change then neither am I and it delivers me here once more to this revealing of myself and the things written precisely not to be revealed... and from the moment the words run the optics to the pathways... to meaning itself these the things I’ve been meaning to tell you myself... but never do because now-a-days when I mention anything you just shut up and shut down down down and so the sun is setting on these the old days the old ways of communicating the now dead way this talking past Saturday into early Sunday... now I’ll move forward with the new techniques brooding quietly not talking about it not caring not giving a fuck ...for that final night in the Ramada will stand as the decommissioning of my service to you