6.6.17

5-18-17

Ask us to sing, or not,

Either way we are listening.

Holding hands, in throats a question,

We know the response is silence.

Not out of thought, or

Better judgement

But

Of absence.

Lack, the scraped inside

Relieved of its voice.

It isn’t pat, and the platitudes

Still escape us

Not ready to acknowledge

The void.

The vibrations stilled,

Broken but

Not bloody.

I don’t want to think of the colors;

Ours are white and bloodless, waiting.

While in the center of our circle,

Bulges a mountain of flowers.

(I wrote this for Chris Cornell. Compared to what he could do, it seems very small indeed)

6.2.17

5-16-17

What do you care if I’m made

Of bricks or clay,

Patched with straw or gold?

What do you care if I’m even a vessel.

I can promise to carry water for the people

And never do it.

Or every day save from thirst

And your face is blind to it,

Soft and rubbery and blind.

I am not sure if you even see colors.

I hate in the mirror I increasingly see your face.

Hate,

Oh, I know. I know.