Dead Air

these irritably critical conversations

are spreading me thin     like honey scraped

across burnt toast     and I am quite sure

that if I stood naked before your paper lantern

you could see straight through my skin

 

because too much talk reminds me

of being six years old at Huntington Beach

and pressing my hands to my ears each time

the lip of a wave rose up like a startled horse

and planted its wet hooves at my sinking feet

 

there are things to be said     questions

to be answered, explained, detained, drained

until our mouths are deserts on opposite continents,

but you can’t fit an entire ocean in a bottle

and even if you could, would it make more sense

than it does between the horizon and the shore?

 

the chatter on this station is turning to white noise

as we repeat, replay, rehash, reprise     everything

is a looping echo of what we already know

and I am ready to rotate our exhausted dial

until I hear the static sonority of dead air 

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Your visuals are amazing. I didn't just read this poem; I saw it. From the honey scraped across burnt toast to the wave rising like a startled horse to fitting the entire ocean into a bottle ... they are all superlative in their imagery. I simply love your writing. It's so different from my own, and I love the different facets of you.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Thank you so much, my friend.

[Anand Sehgal]

surreal write. Nice use of light, and I felt as if I was seeing a artistic movie piece. Not many can do that .! you are brilliant as always.!
Love you :)

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Thank you, so much, my friend. You are always so kind...I'm humbled.