Do I make sense?
I’m speaking but
Can you hear me?

It seems like I’m speaking silence
I suppose I am since, wait--
Do I make sense?

My words are easily misinterpreted
Even now, you’re listening but
Can you hear me?

Tangled tangents taken
From the context of my mind
Do I make sense?

I don’t. Of course the sound waves are reaching you
Still, I have to ask again to be sure
Can you hear me?

L’appel du vide is all I hear
I want to know you’re not the same
Do I make sense?
Can you hear me?

has anyone ever told you that your voice
exacerbates the past

your voice gnaws at the edge of my soul
as if my soul is a tough, stale gingerbread cookie that still tastes somewhat? okay

your voice has the appearance of a soft kiss on the forehead at dusk before i scurry back in to have supper, smiling to myself

your voice has the appearance of braids and freckles on a goofy, smiling face and sun dresses on my funny little body

it aches
but that's somewhat? okay

do not overthink,
(said the Over-thinker)

close your eyes
and see

shut out all sounds
and listen closely

reach out, grab it, tumble
into it, collide with your
fullest body and lick it, taste it
with your soul until it too,
can taste you

so be naked-- let the tender flesh of your mind
be cold and exposed to it

give yourself to it, and it will give itself to you

sighs into mic*

i'm sorry
i don't know about you but
i don't think i could ever
love democracy
as fully
as wholly
as someone who once knew life without it.

like an immigrant.

i was born in the act of falling,
the feeling of flight interlaced
with skin as tender as dawn,
a soft rippling of the face in the salty wind
as we become children of the sea

I always knew I could
weave magic with a pen,
but I never realized that
the magic could pull
tears from dry eyes,
or pain from numb hearts,
or warmth from cold souls,
or inspiration from empty minds.