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Interrupted While Reading in Public

A nothing—

you suppose

and assume

too much

upon others:

as if your presence,

and proximit,y

are enough,

you claim space

upon our attention.

You who speaks

a flurry

of flatulence—

Who are you

to say we’re rude?

Like pebbles,

you throw words

to blind,

mock,

and silence.

At best, 

you are a gnat

flitting between

this book

and the table.

(September 16, 2019)

Source

images

Often while reading,

I scan the words,

turn the pages,

and then the book

vanishes, and I vanish,

aware of nothing.

 

To hold nothing,

and have nothing hold,

I desire this freedom–

a breath unnoticed,

as it is

ubiquitous:

 

Radiant, without center,

I cannot name

my discontent.

A wind, at my ear,

stills as I turn;

yet, still’s nearby.

 

(November 4, 2018)

Teaching

IMG_3451

 

I’m not sure I do much,

but open doors, set up chairs,

provide a place to read,

talk, write; which is enough

and yet, is not enough

to beat back the belligerence

barking like a spittle-flecked

beast. I can’t save them

from what is to come,

nor always be there to speak

amiably into their distress,

and voiceless traumas.

But there is this room,

an open door, and a chair.

 

(March 27, 2018)

Fishing

fish

 

Poetry is existence: the bark

Of the primal tongue gnawed

Into the first cave’s wet clay.

I summon myself with words

Others have spoken. They offer

A bastion, a solace to live out.

Each line defines, creates tension

Between what I know and silence;

Where I am, where I leave off.

When reading late at night,

Or walking in morning fog,

I vanish into some other

Like a fish blindly mouthing

Voiceless O’s into the air.

 

(February 28, 2018)

A Mirror Sees Only Itself

“my nature/is a quagmire of unresolved /confessions”
                        –Robert Creeley, The Door
I resist autobiographical
Interpretations others imply
When they ask about my work.
I do not write to you, nor
Even for you. I am no
Placebo to numb your pain;
No multi-car pile up
To drive by relieved
That it is some other;
No prurient desire to linger
Over, dripping hunger
Like an open wound.
Yes, I write this; yet, you
Come only to see yourself.

(October 12, 2017)