
Everybody talks
watch mouths
look into eyes
feel wind lift
hear birds sing
when world’s too loud
it’s alright
close up inside
stay still
quiet

My pencil
strikes pages
life blinding cures
strike edges
forcing indelicate lines
into windows
where pure light
seldom shines.
Pain
holds steadfast
anchored to World
like a fungus—
Is it reproducing
do you think—
or just hovering
closer
to our mega view?


You should keep writing
even if it’s not for sale
you ought to keep trying
to paint the sky
with your dreams.
I asked a ground man
how he might vote
if he found
a voting booth
he said doctor
I am hungry
I vote for bread
I vote for Truth.

Pencil on paper. Images arise. Message received.