noise poem

so many things i want to write but are
they right even to think about?

i pause and the poem stutters -
the butterflies cease to flutter
and then ... ?

there's that whack 21st century poet
with all the questions again.

it's good to think about things, tho -
such a silly fool i must seem in real life.

am i just my words?
am i just my mind?
am i able to find?
am i able to ...

fill in the blanks of my life.
i said no poetry but it's just
a song and poetry is the only life
that hasn't left me - poetry is in me
and around me and i see it and it is me,
this poetry, this poetry, this poetry
tinges maybe what you saw, what was
heard, what was thought - or
maybe it's just me and i'm
caught up in it, unable
to keep up with it.

poet to poet
transference
in backrooms
videos with
dialogues
spliced in.

am i going to sleep?
never again, never
again will i let
myself sleep
with my eyes
open as it were.

yes, i'm going to sleep,
my mind tied up in knots,
slowly unraveling, hoping
when the center is unfurled
it's still something worth
longing for, something worth
so much more.

slow and steady wins the race,
mallasch.
you know that.

there's so much more i want to say,
but my fingers can't keep up with my
mind and when i talk aloud, i stutter,
i fumble - so maybe the words are the
real me and i'm not who i seem to be.

the self-doubts come bellowing from the west,
moving east at a fast pace. i try to stop their
progress, try to hold them off and then i slip and
fall and am falling and i never want it to stop - i
want this moment etched forever in my mind - i want it
to go on, to continue, to produce something beyond even
what i feel now - to share that - to share this - to be a
poem - to live a life - to love like there's no end and no
tomorrow,
too much sorrow
for a single soul to
bear - there or here -
baring my soul to the heat
of the fire - purifying it slow
and steady. sparks shooting up -
pop, pop, pop - my ego's busted,
broke the bladder that stored
all the good thoughts about
me and i seem to think
... i seem to think
what? i seem to
think that ...
i seem to
think
this
the
total
experience - the boring and mundane behind the
thin veil of words that stream from mind to
screen and the screams of wonder won't
stop, won't cease, won't desist,
and i can't resist and i must
insist and i shouldn't
miss this and i'm
spinning again
on this planet
this rock called
earth tilts and sways
and we sometimes fall off
without anyone ever even noticing
and when we land we stand and plan
to do better, plan to be better
but can we ever be anything
else than what we are?
and if that, by far,
is brilliant as
a star, will
it work?

my poetry makes even me dizzy.
i figure if i write enough
words to camoflauge the
thoughts, i can get
away with baring
my soul for
others to
read, for
others to
see - for
one to hear -
for one so dear -
words bluster forth,
clouding the image. a
lot of 'noise' in this
poem if you will.

and with that,
i smile, and
think and
continue to dream
this impossible dream
that seems as if it can't
possibly be real.

i feel again,
and it's good.