silence does not
saunter off, quiet instances
lined like paper snow-flakes repeat,
repeating like one drop
after the next, pregnant, gorging,
heavy, off the faucet’s neck/
the webbed limbs’ pattern sprung
in eons from a trunk, always the same
shape after rain, and it isn’t
so hard to believe it’s always
the same drop, the same silence
you suffer to mute; to lose
in the city in the television
in the conversation.
it is all one
sadness,
it is all one
silence:
omniscient, absolute.
you recognize the silent faces
of war staring through cheap
carbon-paper, you stare back
into all the blood, saying nothing.
no wonder, seeing in a tint
of such red, we’ve bested ourselves,
bound to the sun in a willing, slow
set to the stars we’ll return
all the truth we thought we’d found
in our stumble, our struggle,
our calamity. close out thrusting
lights and rebel cries, when it hits
the fan it’s turnin’ to fire/twist blinds,
burn smoke, stare stare
into that screen, keep the fingers
moving
down for a fuck
like a gun on a tongue,
say nothing, don’t slip in the shit,
don’t burn out with the sun,
the clean are all barbers
for brains and revolution.
suck one more time, turn
it on, sleep over everything,
just black, just dark, just tears,
just silence
repeating,
repeating.
some are writing their pages
with spray-paint and the mud
of Ohio river, the revisionists
have published all the rest.
counter the thought,
burnish the secrets,
strangle the voices.
the smoke rises towards
heaven, motherfuckers,
the smoke rises towards heaven.