Voices On A Screen

There are Other voices, which you are part of, yet separate

Those Other voices are filled within you, with their weight of coarse speech and their calluses that form upon your whispers, where empathy is a gesture gained and lost at the tip of fingers. Forgiveness is a motion of the air.

Those voices have years rubbed into you, your stripped throat rests for breath, transcriptions of your representation are tumbles, veering, slips of the tongue, loose like clay, then formed, dried, solid.

Those Other voices are differing tones of speech, a music, singing is flesh. They dance in the dissonance of tomorrow’s word search. Key words twist. Fonts waltz in the shape of the living. You are printed, faxed, fallen, risen within voices, as you chant, now, in front of me.

They move, they are moved, they have been moving, we become consonant

.

 

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Numbfounded

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I don’t know about you, but

I have Loudness in my life

With a special ability

To pierce my eardrum,

As if he were born

With just the right frequency

To irritate only me!

 

Sometimes I want to

Stick a sock

In his throat and watch

Him writhe wrecked

Worry and panic

Over the inability to

Say a single meaningless

Verbal kernel.

But, most (all) the time

I smile, nod, shake my head

Up and down, up and down

In agreement with whatever

Schlokola is being shed.

 

His crass is carefully constructed

Dumbness, leaving me numbfounded

Why?

The shit ain’t the shit

Because the shit is full of crap!

The shit is stanky

The shit is smelling up the shack.

The shit is too….., well…. shitty!

Plus….

 

He’s a lying sack of shit.

If your mama heard him talk

She’d slap the shit right out of him.

 

OK, that’s enough shit for a poem

(That’s right this is a poem!

Did you think for one minute

I was going to change my ways?)

 

Let me tell you,

Loudmouth loves to linger on…

For more loudmouthing, repeating

Irritating long legends

That cannot be true unless

Loudmouth lived in multiple

Dimensions simultaneously

(I would feel sorry for those dimensions)
Or was alive during decades

before he was gurgling, happily

Sucking on a sugarcoated baby binky!

 

That’s it. That’s all. La La.

No need to repeat.

Sorry, if I was shouting in your ear.

 

The Cat’s Nomenclature

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All throats are coated

There is no clear speech

It is, a cluttered emptiness

Search for words, understood only

By mimicry, representation sounded

And it seems that voice knows

What part of the night

To split open wide, with ruckus

Within the apex of all silence

The place trust is set safely

Tearing open the deepest of quells

Sleep knows nothing about dreams

Because, fast comes the first utterance

And the sun sets a measurement

Ironically, making no sound in travel

Rays search, though, it’s light

The beam that warms the spot

Where my cat lies, twitching in dream

Unaware of how the orbits

Slide quickly across the floor

And I swear that cat is Eliot

Where he touches, nomenclature

Fur is found, forever adhered

To my town clothes, categorizing

The attempt to name things, out loud

He sleeps whenever, mumbling

In his laziness, it amuses him

Especially in daylight, a purr

Twitches my ear, meows must be written

Down, in a dug-up hope Hieroglyphic

He follows the sun or the furnace

Whichever argues for the warmest spot

I, can only watch, knowing

Speaking to him, kindly, about our star

Who circles who, and why, misleading

His four paws scamper to me

When my throat clears

But it’s the sound of me, questioning

Breaking the heated silence

I measure names, always have

I repeat the classifications, audibly

Wars have names, Desire is called

Something—moves in response

The Sound, love knows all our names

Chapters titled and files misplaced

Eliot cries as cats before him have done

Identifying the unspeaking warmth

The clearness of his speech

Simple enough, if one understands

The name of every star

That has split the night wide open

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Young Words

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There is a temporal space

A frozen lake, where words

From heated thoughts spill,

Into symbols upon ice

Slip, fall, even from sure palms

 

The stilled linear water

Layered out into oval

Fed by streams and sources

Have been slowed

By brave swimmers

 

Their heads bob

With white swimming caps

Protecting them from

Elements that cut and draw

Fissures into their hearts

 

There is always a fear

Of falling underneath

The crackling, heard by all

No one says a word, for

Words are to be written

 

The cold, cold mirror

With fractures and weak spots

calls me by my only name

Reaches silenced ears, mine

Threatens by incessant scrawling

 

Tells me of so much more

Of water, a liquid realm

Yet, I cannot see how it runs

It is really two worlds

To know is to drown, twice

 

I watch words tumble

Through a skater’s figure 8,

By time they travel, to

And return iced, always

Younger than I will ever be

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A World Away Means We Are Dust

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A world away

means we are dust

Showing a sign

Is a leaf in the crack of the sidewalk

 

Even if I did say

Something stupid

You know I’m true

 

Even though

I got mad

You know my heart is real

 

I’m aware

Of words

That shoot sideways

 

I’m guilty

Of saying

Things layered in misdirection

 

Even if

My tongue

Never touches yours ever again

 

Even if

My hands

Never feel the tautness of your stomach

 

I am

Your friend

Regardless of my desire

 

I am

An ear

Listening to your desires

 

But,

 

A world away

Means we are dust

 

Please,

Please,

Please,

No.