if it appears that
my poems lack conviction,
it's because they do.

my words: white noise on
a radio brain, and i
can't change the station.

i like seeing people when they're sleepy.
completely real
unfiltered humans,
yawning in their baggy nightclothes,
worn blankets wrapped like shawls,
and soft smiles
as they claim they aren't exhausted,
no,
their eyes are just tired.
their low mumbling gives them away every time, though.

people are wondrously beautiful in a
natural, peaceful state.

they say there ain't rhythm
they say it don't rhyme
but people get famous off that kinda ****
all the ****
day

Read this to yourself. Read it silently.
Don't move your lips. Don't make a sound.
Listen to yourself. Listen without hearing anything.
What a wonderfully weird thing, huh?

NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD!
SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND!
DROWN EVERYTHING OUT.
Now, hear a whisper. A tiny whisper.

Now, read this next line with your best crochety- old-man voice:
"Hello there, sonny. Does your town have a post office?"
Awesome! Who was that? Whose voice was that?
It sure wasn't yours!

How do you do that?
How?!
Must be magic.

If you come as softly
As the wind within the trees
You may hear what I hear
See what sorrow sees.

If you come as lightly
As threading dew
I will take you gladly
Nor ask more of you.

You may sit beside me
Silent as a breath
Only those who stay dead
Shall remember death.

And if you come I will be silent
Nor speak harsh words to you.
I will not ask you why now.
Or how, or what you do.

We shall sit here, softly
Beneath two different years
And the rich between us
Shall drink our tears.