The Quiet

The quiet comes lightly, sifting at first as sand might,
or in this part of the world, like hay-topped dirt
filled with thirst.

The quiet comes, and is as quickly overrun
by a commercial, by advice, by a flashing
green arrow.

The quiet, inside whom the voices live, behind whom
the images, the long spark of creativity.

But so much has already been credited,
renowned, commoned, created. Long lines
we stand in,

not for a shot at the oboe or the canvas,
but to relieve ourselves in plastic booths
filled with other’s excrement.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s