I’m sick of silence.
It never moves.
Stagnant enterprise with unbreachable walls,
and now nothing...
Hopeless and fake, subtly screaming
for the core to stay in place.
Then a crash, a tumble, a tear, a break;
all noiseless constants of an inner world,
and terrestrial motions spin spirals
through endless corridors, finalizing
in a nine month marathon.
Silence has never sounded so smooth.
Leafless trees and a moon so full.
My words do me no justice,
a philosopher
with no knowledge
in his bed.
LYRIC!
Inspired again?
Nothing new, my arc,
it’s missing.
Shhh...
Time to sleep.
My dreams percolate
lost entity of belief,
and the wind blows:
gravity’s arm lifting
me from the ground
placing me gently, back
on acid trails
amidst candy dried sound.
Patiently I wait
counting days like seconds.
- Oct 4, 2003
In February
Where is my plateau?
I can look down
yet still feel so far below.
1789 or MDCCLXXXIX
glaring down at me,
through the visage of double paned glass.
The Romans had many victories
in downtown New York, or
so we are led to believe.
Now holographic brick paneled
in two dimensions makes me feel
like part of a pop-up book,
and the weightless matter in the distance
makes the sky seem so far away.
So shine down pitiful Sun;
for air conditioning units serve no purpose
in February.
- February 2, 2004