There is something said

for being able to get the word down

when people talk all the time

saying nonsense things

letting their words fly

like blowflies

while my word

sleeps, without a sound.

I find refuge in writing.

Often, it’s the only thing between me

and impossibility.

It isn’t a loud activity

It walks along

slowly

one word at a time

in noisy neighborhoods

like clouds floating across the sky.

Poetry smiles at me

while all the busy people don’t know what to do

I soak in it, like sunshine

My world has no signs

I go my own way

as the crow flies

It’s beautiful

up here

so much so

that the city looks at rest

while their unrest

is just beneath the surface

of their dull exteriors

I watch

sandcastles on the beach

and when the red tide rolls in

I won’t be there.

It’s a bomb and a disease

while I enjoy a stiff breeze

and the old men of empire drink

to massage their guilt

like a young bitch

rubbing-out the lives

of bloodied soldiers

staring at blue

on the beaches

that won’t belong to anybody.

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