I love the loud
I love the light
And yet I choose
To live my life
Silently
At half past three
Inside a space
That's not my own
Inside a house
I can't call home
Deep inside the dark and quiet

My bed is free
That is to say
Has vacancy
And I don't pay
I'd invite
You for the night
If only my
Old mother's ears
Had lost their youth
And couldn't hear
Us breathe together
Crystal clear
In the dark and quiet

The radio
Will sing no tunes
The sunrise can-
not come too soon
Silently
At half past three
Is this how it
Feels to be free
Is this the Hell
I've made for me
Deep inside the dark and quiet

Henry walked through the park

The usual park

You know the one I mean

The one with the ducks

And the donated benches

With names engraved on them

"In loving memory of so and so...

here is a quiet place to sit"

And as Henry walked

As he usually did

Through the park

At the usual time

That is, the time that he usually

Walked through the park

You know the one I mean

The park with the rock

Near the North-Eastern entrance

The rock with the word

"****" spray painted in red

Well, Henry as Henry walked

Past that rock

The "**** Rock", some of the

Kids in the neighborhood call it,

As he walked past this rock

On this usual day

He came to the sudden conclusion

That the world

Despite all its pretty little ponds

Is an awful, ugly place

And on that day

At that otherwise usual time

Henry did something

Very unusual



A few days later

There was an article in the newspaper

About a man who had drowned

In a pond

In the middle of a pretty little park

You know the one

And there was nothing unusual about it

there is no adjective
to describe
the feeling
that follows
three nights without sleep

the swollen eyes
too much light
(even in the dark)

then what am I
to say when asked, "how are you
today?"?

"tired"

that in itself is a
tiresome response

try
to recall the number of
times you've posed
that question of formality
to an aquaintance, only
to receive
"tired" as a response, as if
that frame of mind is
the newest epidemic sweeping our
terribly exhausting society- seven
to eight hours a night,
that's what we need, or else our
train of
thought is likely
to steer itself off
the rails at least
twice per
talk

this poem is
trash
though I
tried
to be
thoughtful, and
to start each sentence with a
t
(besides the ones in parentheses)

******* insomnia
take a slice if you dare
teach me
the way
to shut
these
tired eyes


there is no adjective
to describe
the feeling
that follows
three nights without sleep

May your days be forever hateful

May your malice flow through pen

And allow all your pain passage

To the screening room

To the eyes of all of us apprentices

As you write of being alone

In a darkened apprehension

With heart, whose name you whisper,

"Broken," so softly, as if

You stand above its grave

And fear waking the dead

Aside- you are asleep

And need not remain silent

Nor deaf to all the shouts

Of the people in your room

Trying to get you up

From your coma, night terror,

Self contrived absence of light.

Your heart is not broken.

In fact, it needs a break.

The weight you put upon it

Is more than it can take.

I digress- may your days

Forever be hateful

And your nights filled

With the sweet fragrant perfumes

Of victory and love

As i Smoke the Day's last Cigarette
Animal Sounds all Around me

the Restless cat Scratches at
                    the Watchful dog
the Seagull squawks, Seeking to
                     Snack on the Frog
who Sings his Heart and Throat raw
                    Out in the Pond,
a Song for the Raccoon
                    in the Woods Beyond

and the Cat starts to cry,
the Dog gives a sigh;
the Frog sings along,
the Raccoon and Seagull die

Mother Sleeps while Child Writes, the Story
                          of so Many Nights-
the Animal Sounds All Around;
Crying, Sighing, Singing Dying,

Scritching and Scratching of Claw and Pen
As i Smoke the Day's last Cigarette

a heart breaks today
a mind is set free of lament
a libido churns