You’re a traveler for the sound of wings.
Its organic, magnetic, comforting flutter
Eases you, resolves you, melts you into consonance
Whose song sings the thing, that lies…. within
The rhetoric of freeways,
That stripe of sound
Dividing you into directions all around
Off-ramps, like arms,……reach…..
Fail to catch your ass into neighborhoods.
You’re yelling at deafening speeds
Echoing,……you count mileposts like seeds
Destinations are blurred and blaring
Definitions are judgments on maps……
As if the sound of your voice wraps………..around
Where you’re from.
This must be who you are
That’s why all ask the near and far
Where are you going?
…”Here”, you always say
To break the silence
You ask when you’re going to be done, done, done…?
With the stagnation of quietude…?
That very thing that mirrors you…?
You want yourself to be outside of self
A tune….. someone else can hum
The sum of mangled mum,
To patch the latch
That locks the song,
That finds the flutter,
the ripple of touch
A Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah moment
That merges the lanes…of….
The freeway that guts the city into glitter
With the sharpened knife, full of jitters
You think sound cannot be quelled
It is silence that must be felled.
Carpool lanes attempt to sort things out
Engineers search to create
Cars that do not grate
While the engine da doo ron rons.
No one can stop the transmission
Of your travel, the unravel amongst the gravel
You’re too fast to be unheard
Too certain to be burdening the rewording of
The sound you peep… so neat…it squeaks
It’s a power, an achievement
Of gaining that smidgen, that nudge, the fudge of meaning…
Modern meditation, the mediation of the autobahn Om
Rolling grooves into the sound soul syndicate of one, benumbed
Silence waits for no one
Why would it? Why should it?
It’s always there, bare.
When you think you are disabling it….
It, actuality, is disabling you,
Gabba Gabba hey
Your mouth seeks control
Shaking beyond, vibrating soul
You are in the age of yelling
Fuck listening, it’s not selling.
You’re traveling with headphones on
By the time you’re here, you’re gone
You force cracks in the sound continuum
Silence must be held to a minimum.
Then, all perception you can collect
Is understood like the Doppler Effect
Signified by unstable frequency
The flutter who always has to fly
(To the future quiet ones,
Look back to this poem with silent praise for those who had shut the fuck up before you. May the daily clash of clatter, twisters, tsunamis of the tongue, find composure in your blogosphere. Silence is not understood by the living. The dead understand it well. The universe understands it better. Looks like “we’re” outnumbered.)
Dedicated to the architect. Who, most likely, has no idea who he is, but knows the sound of his own voice.