Wednesday, 29 December 2010

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

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 big when I breathe you

out onto the new

freed from my mind but
contained in images of
the silent, wanting to
be silent
the 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.

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