I always feel a little weird when people refer to what I write as “poetry”. I don’t set out to write poems, not anymore. I just plug the probe into my brain, wait for some random amount of time, and then yank it back out again. I’m left with whatever was dumped during that time.
I guess people are fooled by the fact that I’ve started whacking my sentences up into short lines, because I got tired of sticking ellipses between everything.
It ranges from the amusing to the exasperating. Sometimes I’m just voicing my thoughts; but sometimes I’m trying to talk to people, no not just people, you, and you seem to think I’m creating Art and so remain hushed and appreciative. Or critical.
Or maybe it’s just the uncomfortable silence that follows the voicing of something thoroughly impolite. Difficult to tell in cyberspace.
Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Am I making a fool of myself?
I hear you. Sometimes the frequencies waver and I have trouble bringing you in clearly, but I do hear you.
I fumble with the dial and try to listen, closer than close, but I’m afraid I often don’t understand.
More intently than you know.
“i radio heaven
i get mixed signals
i move the antenna
i switch the channels
i lie in this bed
my satellite dish
is there room in the universe
for one last wish
do you read me
you wanna come
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