
Art Of Silence
the postman may always ring twice for Lana Turner
but not for me
no more
Silence
in that sacred space created
a beauty of mind
Humanity: Raw & Unfiltered
the postman may always ring twice for Lana Turner
but not for me
no more
Silence
in that sacred space created
a beauty of mind
I wish I could get rid of the taste, it is metallic and poisonous, like burnt pious self-righteousness, unpalatable. I want to wash and sterilize my mouth, my mind, my body, and my spirit of all the trash it has produced and swallowed. I wish I could erase the memories; Read more
I’m the archivist of my mind
But I lack the proper training to keep a clean house
By the world’s standards, I was a good kid: I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I didn’t do drugs, and I didn’t get into trouble with the law. In fact, I was so squeaky-clean I was still a virgin. Without delay, however, I was counseled by church elders and advised I wasn’t a good kid by Jehovah’s Witnesses standards: I had shoulder-length hair, I attended rock concerts, I had worldly girlfriends, and I possessed a questionable record collection that included music by Stevie Nicks and Led Zeppelin.
I like to read books
and watch the sunset
pull dirt out of sentences.
I was always choosing between a relationship and my cherished
and essential alonement
my connection to Self
denied for dozens of years
choosing validation by whomever wanted to fuck me
Words fly on the midnight sparks
They land sideways burning our dust
I stand on the edge, my breath a stream
My step a noose, a lonely dream.