poetry composed in perfect silence
doesn't exist...
for there is no such thing,
perfect silence

there are no
noise canceling headphones,
a coachable prevent defense,
protecting my inner ears from
hearing words forced to the surface,
loudly spoken, up floating
unto the mind's constancy of enraging waters,
the highest definition of
mental disquiet,
the imperfect silence

frag grenades, IED's detonate,
all nicknames for the brain's multi-voices,
all argue raucous,
unafraid of exposure,
over~shouting to be heard,
freely secure in the
seeming silent privacy
of my brain,
mine owned
internecine mental slaughterhouse

and yet,
what I write down,
mine to keep...

my home,
and my mind,
an isle,
an atom of Earth
and flesh cells,
split surrounded by a
broad freshwater river

the isle of the mind
spits fingers of land and voices,
injecting themselves into
the two~sided, belly~soft riversides,
forming bays and coves,
hiding places for
crafty human devices

my poor mind,
mind it well,
as this sailing craft called poetry,
now,  but a tiny ketch
to keep me afloat upon the
river surround,
while avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
those who gladly drown me
for pleasure,
enjoying the pretending-to-be-quiet
internal screams denouncing
the myth of perfect silence

but the imperfect
poetry
born amidst
imperfect sleep,
the residual,
mine to keep...

simply breathing
like the white washed hills
of notorious syllables
spilling, crying like crows
over the gushing riversides
and the spatter of rain,
the soft trickle of fog
scouring the trees under
a blanket of white wash walls,
prancing concrete roads
paved black like mirrors
down into the yonder
and the bristling chirps,
the crying youngsters
of spring awakening,
she greets with that
of a thundering storm

poetry composed in perfect silence
for which
there are no noise canceling headphones,
a coachable prevent defense,
protecting my inner ears from hearing
words forced to the surface,
loudly spoken, up floating
to the mind's enraging waters admixed
in the high definition
disquiet of imperfect silence

frag grenades, IED's detonate,
nicknames for the brain's multi-voices,
all argue raucous, unafraid of exposure,
over~shouting to be heard,
freely secure in the silent privacy
of mine owned
internecine slaughterhouse

but what I write down,
is mine to keep...

my home is an isle,
an atom of Earth
split by a broad freshwater river

land spits on Google earth
can be witnessed, seen plotting,
injecting  themselves into
my two~sided, belly~soft
unprotected riversides,
forming bays and coves,
hiding places for
crafty
human devices

my poor mind is my river,
mind the sailing craft called poetry,
a ketch to keep afloat,
while avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
those who gladly drown me
for pleasure

share with me a life full of apple seeds
and plants. a life bounded only by

--?--

old used bookshops - - - bookships.
set sail with me, won't you? set sail
with me to the ends of this mighty
earth and dirt spurs my moments
to perfect oblivion- full, so full. empty,
with such fullness. you are --?-- and I
am in love with you. you are in love
with me. we are in love. like sour
diamonds and tents full of naked adventure,
riversides, mountainview ride into lopsided
beauty- I am yours to keep, darling, if you'll
have me.