Bio

 

A frequent contributor to Literary Heist, as well as Harbinger Asylum

 

Yesterday was the best.

Fed up with misunderstandings,
false approbations,
simple language,
two word answers
to unanswerable questions,
I said nothing.

On the brightest day of May,
everything in nature
jumping as if on wound up springs,
I discover myself a 20th century
artefact, polarized toward another mode,
but sleepy and restless, speaking from
an empty shell not caring about
the diction of poetry,
or the lazy meter of prose.
Even the sun is blazing with perfect warmth,
the breeze chilling shade
as it does in May.
I open a window
and a soft wall of warmth enters
a cold room,
massages my cold skin
with solar warmth,
and a touch of April’s chill still in the wind.

The crows are distant –
I don’t fear their carrion tastes.

A hammer taps, then
harder knocks against
pliant cords of wood
racket around a chasm
of houses.

A saw’s buzz, the hammer knock,
a lawnmower moaning through
high grass, the creak of a window
cranking open – machine sounds
that give me a peaceful sense
within my solitude, and however
discordant breath becomes,
these things hold no judgement.

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