Saturday, February 18, 2017


Artwork by Pennie Gibson

Sir, bow I'm writing
at lone island, not thinking
face smiling, heart shrinking
a man thinks, not thinking

God descend, realm is in my closure
thoughts are odorless, and not dreaming
but thoughts are me, mere my pleasure
a man is asleep. but not dreaming

Sound in background plays backward
melody is mute, I'm not hearing
in late memories (taste is awkward)
a man is speaking, I'm not hearing

Say I foretell stories in papers
would you buy me? Just asking
or if I was printed in fat-reddish letters
would you read me? Still asking

Think of a man with not a brain like me
given a pen or a world for living
at least a world, a pen he wouldn't see
if not for signing his name, a word for living
rd for living

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