about being silent.

Switched lights target low flight

scattering feathers of

constant re-hashed time flow

the weaving thoughts of

pre-poetics clamor for

the front lobe pole position

on page and drawn reality

these spirits of miss-formed

P's and E's

grumbling sigils of

peace and ease

easily piecing together the

frozen leopard

from cross-state

we can walk on it

and ignor the cracking doom

of ruined sweaters and

substandard living

gasping for an overhang that

can keep us out of the cold

it brings you to me,

shivering with the

spirit of lowell and

san fransisco, chicago, and

cardiff

I walk through a miasma

of reconsideration to find it,

breathing underground

with the heaving chests

of social alcaholism

I twist my body and mind around

it's pointed pen, vessel for

spirits of lowell, san fransisco,

chicago, and home

I write you down so that

you can be small on the page,

and so

so

so big when I breathe you

out

out

out onto the new

freed from my mind but

contained in images of

the silent, wanting to

be silent

the silence

silence

being silent isn't knowing how to make no sounds, it's knowing what sounds you can make and still not be heard.

be silent.