it's dark it's quiet
and there is ache
forcing shifting

i've a cotton swab
and two crayons
colors i can't see

smeared probably
indeterminate
like ankles sweeping by

my mind is in two places
at once the feel of that skin
against my face vibrato

back here typing words
i think with electrons and pixels
a density pleasing to the eye

and something is owed here
let from always guarded
a minimum a glimpse

my name is uncertain
i'm sure your hunger
is concerned with scent

the zigs and zags of the rest
clever beautiful intricate
non-existent experience

"He left behind a harpist
which was a particular surprise"

I can't talk to all of you
honestly

You've something in
your head

I neither agree with
nor wish to offend

I truly respect you
my human equal

I truly suspect you
your head muscles

Handed to you as true
wherever you grew

I know they are strong
can't be wrong

Yet your heart hurts
to some degree

At the dissonance
heartfelt

And leading to this
poetry thing

This, we think
is to be passed on
This understanding
ripe in our getting
As if there is always
an audience who cares
and it is just time
a wave of ears
and sounds
clowning

I yam just a poem
with bits o' dirt
clinging to me
Can't seem
to them brush off

I am flowing into this life
I am growing into this niche

it is more human more unsettled
more unexpected in every way

i am occupied by sincerity
its unreasonable expectation

how it listens and smiles
at the sound of the unknown

There is ink spilled
on white worn linen
well scrubbed wood
railings smooth and worn
tremolo sounds across baseboards
and cabinetry of cypress

These grains in wood speak
as if they were twirled
on a song and open smile
and i wonder what isn't
twirled across time and faces
nothing