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.