make a space for silence
to then flood it with my words
much more art than science
and it’s usually gonna hurt
yank at every thread to find
the one that might unfurl
careful with that ax, Eugene,
I think I’m gonna hurl
pouring, pouring, days are boring
creeping and sneaking past
say something once but I can’t get it right
struggle in silence with no end in sight!
shore am glad to see ya
a stunted chuckle produced on cue
to show affiliation
to ease the brutal burden
of standing in the silence
chiaroscuro portraits – a story circle
Chiaroscuro portraits on her bedroom wall. She tunes the radio with a smooth glide of her wrist, but hears nothing but static. Beads of sweat emerge at her brow, and she goes over to her collection of records – a few dozen scuffed 45s stacked in milk crates. Her fingertips, dry skin flaking, flick through the records. The sound they make is like a skittering insect’s many legs.
She selects a post-fusion jazz trio featuring Etna St. Dames on synthesizer, spools it onto her record player, sets the needle.
No sound emerges from the dusty speaker.
She scribbles the needle across the grooves but hears only rhythmless static. She yanks the needle and it comes off in her hands with a soft click. The static goes with it. She touches the plastic portrait frames, their subjects silently staring.