I have one regret. I took too damned long…
THE SILENT PEOPLE
Some people are so rude,
Living their lives with no concern for others,
Or possibly just intent on pissing other people off-
Annoying everyone around them.
The silent people-
Want to kill them-
And drive forks into their skulls-
Create weapons of extreme torture-
And scream from the top of their lungs-
But words are not spoken-
And attention is not given.
Though annoyance is apparent,
The annoying keep on living.
And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.
They don’t know I only speak in runaway train stations
and everybody is always a few minutes too late to the platform.
No one has ever gotten the chance to get too close
because it is never romantic to fuck the girl who makes love to her own sadness every single night.
The color-patches of vision part, shift, and reform as I move through space in time. The present is the object of vision, and what I see before me at any given second is a full field of color patches scattered just so. The configuration will never be repeated. Living is moving; time is a live creek bearing changing lights. As I move, or as the world moves around me, the fullness of what I see shatters. “Last forever!
For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something – distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world – but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.
Memory, when it juts, retreats, recovers, shows us how to hold the darkness, how to breathe.
…Lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, how much for a poem?
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.