I want to say how comfortable it is to be in silence,
to sit in it and dwell in it, and spin it ’round and ’round.
But the mind is noisy, like a radio – shifting stations.
And in between the silence there is just white noise,
just spoiled disruption, an idle toy. So
silence does not exist.
I haven’t spoken in days. There’s no one to speak to. Nothing to say.
There has been a quiet sort of hum
I think there is an entire kingdom falling.
There are pellets first of joy beating at shapes and stretches of thought and bombs of bitter broods and battering rams
ramming ramming ramming brick stock walls of foundation.
There are rapes, torn and ripping rapture, and there are bodies.
I want to say how comfortable it is to be in silence,
But I don’t think I’ve ever been there.
Each time there is quiet in the room, a war persists and insists
in drowning me
with pellets and bodies, both rotten and red, both engorged
and swollen past the limit. Thee are noises,
so many noises, kicking kicking down walls and barriers
that should not be kicked down,
that should not crumble. They should
not be challenged. Kicking kicking down, and spinning
spinning, shaking nothing and stirring nothing, bringing
nothing. I want to say how comfortable it is to be in silence.
I’ve spent years in it, I think. I’ve spent lives of solitude stuck in it, I think.
There is no one. There is everywhere. Each time
a moment passes, I am with no one and I am everywhere.
It’s a state of awareness, a void of presence
Or insanity. Or anxiety. Or discomfort. Or uneasiness.
I want to say that I am not comfortable in silence.
Nor equipped for loneliness, and that every day that passes,
I slowly lose my mind.
But I would be half-lying.


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