THE WRITER AS THIEF

In blindness there is sound.

In sound there is reverberation.

In reverberation I find direction.

The sound of cars stopping,

            Passing me by--

In the cacophony of voices,

Words and phrases disconnected

From all the traffic of tongues,

Stories surrounding me.

            Some are lies.

            Some are true.

It's not up to me to discern

Which is which?

I just capture them,

Preserving them for

A future page,

A line fragment.

Wherever a string of words

Tangles in my mind,

Snagging my elusive attention,

There will, someday soon,

Be a place for these transient

Residents to leap into

Someone else's life.

Beware the silent passerby:

She's observing you,

Taking notes--

She's stealing from you

And you don't even know it.

Copyright (c) 2013 by the author

CREDITORS

the phone keeps ringing

at odd times of day,

creditors seeking redress

of their grievances, prompt

payment of the debts they

claim to hold.  they offer

terms--if one would answer

the demanding, ringing phone.

no one is home, though.

or at least, we pretend not to be

present. the telephone may make

its presence known, demand attention.

we just unplug it,

we just turn down the volume

so we won't hear its persistent rings.

Callers cannot reach through to us,

insist that we pay attention--

pay homage--

pay the damned debt.

too many distractions,

too many shows still to see

from the nearest DVR,

too many websites to browse,

too many Youtube videos.

demand never intersects

with consent.

Copyright (c) 2013 by the author

VODKA TALKING

Vodka talking,

First sip turns

The first key to

Loose the demons

Of past and present

Grievances.

Alcohol, in its molecular

Complexity,

Fits the locks installed

By years of repression,

Pushing down--

Compression of memories.

But now, with each glass

Of tasty toxin,

The door opens wider,

And memory never misses

An opportunity to escape

Into the light,

Serrated edges, images

Draw blood

From unsuspecting hearts

With the misfortune

Of proximity.

As doors and windows

Are shoved open,

Walls emerge to block

Out any evidence

When tomorrow's harsh light  arrives

To reveal the damage

Inflicted by pain's stampede--

Words carelessly flung

In the language of fermentation

Started and stopped

So precisely.

Chemistry--once initiated--

Resists recapture by one

Repentant septuagenarian.

 Copyright (c) 2013 by the author