No one called
WHO is no  one anyway?
I've  done the same by
not picking up the phone to dial
people that live miles away
just to say hello and miss you , miss me?
I'm sure they know!
Besides I dislike the phone  ,
privacy invaded
placed on hold,  disconnected  
bad reception  
Telepathically  pick up
I am calling .

I can understand that one is knowledgeable,
While understanding that this is not correlative or indicative of intelligence.
Likewise, I can understand one is both, or can be both,
And respect that in specific.
Yet; I can likewise understand,
That while the aforementioned individual(s)
Merits respect in that or those specific aspect(s) and/or attribute(s),
That that individual lacks patience & compassion.
And so that individual is ultimately unworthy/undeserving
Of any greater respect than in understanding them.

Otherwise, I hamper myself & only hinder others
In both intelligence & understanding.

Conversely, I can appreciate that one may understand what they're talking about
Even if I don't fully understand the experience as described.
Whether this is an aspect of one's own ignorance, as in a lack of understanding or confusion,
Or to/by the nature of how/what information is conveyed.
I can appreciate that communication can sometimes be difficult.
I can respect that individual still;
But only if they're earnestly, honestly trying & attempting to.
Only if they're honest & forthright in it & even about it.

Otherwise, they hamper only themselves & hinder others
In both knowledge & intelligence.

For what once I finally thought would be an addition ended in an addiction.
The eyes that glow when we walk into the room,
The eyes that wander from across the room
But no words spoken.

And not because the blood isn't there
The desire of the affairs, the heat of the bodies..
But no words spoken.

The eyes still wander, the passion still lays, the hope for more and
The heartbreak to know it won't
But no words spoken.

You turned down my book,

so I'll have it published, as --


a detour to you.

What about the card

from my loved one: rain today,


sunny yesterday?

Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.

Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.

There are multitudes

of faces, everyone has --


many more than one.

Do you understand,

or should I turn the drawing --


into a ******?