I don’t like to listen
to the heart beating my lover
as he sleeps       or the tympanic drone
of the jet engine as my plane creeps
through a

cloud
levitated  on  silence

or the hum of life
as it burns calories
into fossil fuels,
fossil fuels
into calories or the buzz of a god-zillion
different smart phones and feet,
percussing
the
sidewalk
along
a regatta of combustion

There is a always a signature;
a pattern,
a cadence,
a sequence
to everything that has decadence
and is trying
to pass as life

And there is this infinite noise
within the body of the divine
out of which
musicians pull their infant notes

But, all I can see is the doom

that awaits…
that impending,
impalpable silence

that is my violence.

And it is where I am
the most.

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