Silent Slam
I riot in a complicated quiet.
Beyond the revels of
the back tables,
the treble giggles
of silly drinkers,
my pen aims outward
to the unheard edge
of the first word.
Could you soften your eyes,
catch a phrase,
experience this pleasure?
A poem is as real
as a meal – as
necessary as
a napkin, only
closer to the lips
and better for the heart.
Inner light and
contemplated art –
angels dance close to devils,
so close no one
can tell them
apart.
Off-Mic Readings
On the Ground