Timpanic membrane mumbles transform into
Crescendoes, dumb  except   within skull walls.
Not quite like a burn, not quite like a sting this
din deigns to drag out old heartaches and new
failures and fresh ideas and stale aspirations but
stuck in staccato can any one idea stay  or   are
they doomed to rattle, to deafen?  They come
and go and is the thought  even  finished  with
these streams  of   consciousness  up  against
dull  tasks,  wasting  commands  and  ­all  these
commands waste so much energy. When I just
want the world to  stand  still  is  there any
one – yes it is                                 who  weaves
back in and               YOU                 that resonates
in overtones.                                 have made the
mental madness manageable when  you quietly
                          stop the leaking gap.
A plane on which to  balance.  A  grip  with   which
to bolster stronger blisters.
                            A quieting yes to block out
out the trembling timbre.
You are order out of chaos.

In the evening’s repose,
My silent film dreams
honor you, and
in the morning
I wake to noiselessness
and a thunderous heart

QUSTIONS AND ANSWERS

Questions – like flowers that open
too early before the color deepens.
They enter and leave mysteriously
in a cloud of confusion, hanging
on the fates of life, safe from neither
bliss nor danger.

Anwsers maybe whispers in the wind
or the touch of a warm palm on a cheek,
a timpanic clamor or the sound of
untouched strings, a thought that
ripens slowly like a color that sets,
an unexpcted letter in the mail
or something unknown in the air.

A question is fragile between
good and bad moments, coming
and going, unfinished.

The answer creating hope
or undoing expectation,
a reminder of forgotten
feeling startling the heart
with strange happiness
or sudden fear, or a bell
unstruct, silent as white
moths against a screen.