Tuesday, June 15, 2021



A lot of us have some sort of impediment

Lashing us to an iron stake on shore.

We never quite launch even 

Though our ship is loaded and ready.

Every minute that goes by, our

Craft sinks deeper into sediment.

But we’re always on the verge of starting

Our speeches, our finely honed

Discourses on love or rage

Without ever saying a single word.

We make listeners uncomfortable

And we’ve learned to play it off like John Cage

But we don’t get it; it isn’t the silence

That makes our audiences

Look down at their shoes;

It’s the ineffectual efforts to break it.

I’m like a golfer with the yips,

Overthinking the simplest of things.

Right grip light, pretend you're 

Holding an infant by the hand.

Easy oscillant backswing like grandpa’s

Metronymic head shaking in derision.

Practice swing upon practice swing, 

It's the only way not to miss.

I also have this unfortunate stutter of the heart

That happens at the most inopportune times.

Like when everything melts away 

Except for the one true thing

And it's up to me

To best express it.

But just as I commence 

Something always goes awry.

In that moment when a good heart

Ought to swell before it flutters,

Mine tends to skip a few beats

And I mistake the fluency 

Of the silences for esoteric profundity.

It doesn’t hold up to scrutiny

All this self induced suffering.

But I know of no quick fixes.

There’s more in the silences

Than you can possibly hear.

You’d have to look to realize this.

If I had to depict it on the page

You’d see dashes and commas 

In the gaps between the words

And a series of periods of ellipses.


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