I could care less

My fingers pull up sinews of roots that never started anything. It's my jungle of weeds, who are stronger than flowers and more desperate than grass. They stretch across my nerves like chloroplast veins. I can see right through them--they aren't parasites but simple, perfect forests that hold me to my word. They keep me warm, and they keep me close. Finally, I am deaf, and I am mute. Finally, I can see.

So I brought the band back to life, and we're shooting for Broadway this time, but they must learn to loosen up their own throats.
What good are their notes to me when my ears have been filled with leaves? I could care less.

I will leave, and it's for the best; he wouldn't know me silent.
I must thank God for his memory.
In his bloodstream roars a symphony.
In case he won't remember me, I've sent pictures of my larynx.