Lansing, Michigan

Some person with their doctorate,
packaged in a camel colored turtleneck
might explain how silence is not a noise;

however, in my desperation, this silence screams
something bloody and wretched, fleshy and choking
more alarming that the sirens of war demanding evacuation.
In this desperation, I sit in a dark hotel room
the deafening lack of noise
floods my brain with a blackening paranoia.

In another's quaint home with soft yellow flower walls,
the late afternoon sunlight streams through bleached white curtains--
this dream keeps me awake. I turn the TV on and press Mute.
I don't need noise. The Silence is speaking.

The woman with a one room house in the inner city,
she's seen everything
quit fighting for justice immediately.
She's skeptical of me,
I'm too naive for her life.

This idea that America's purchased from high-rise, chrome corporates--
How man more can we sell before the morning comes, before the race ends,
before the noise erupts and silence doesn't not control the masses,
keeping us wandering aimlessly and in awe of your wonder, Oh Lord?

Our mouths are dry, we're begging for water at the door of some person
and for those of us who've heard the gospel
we're hoping this man is Jesus.
There's rumors that he is a gentle man.
The rumors are unspoken.

Unimpressed, but he's convinced himself;
his bored glances, he's tired of philanthropy,
shows us to the water hose,
he doesn't speak,
but we're so grateful it's humiliating.

Not a whimper.

I thought I heard the phone ring,
the way hotel phones startle you into answering,
I'm dying from exhaustion and it was a hallucination.
Hoping one person might call, but who would do that?
We're all in this show of pain, different motives
different tickets, different venues
we're vending trying to be seen.

Shooting prayers up like rockets for a noise
as concrete as screaming mothers as their sons
shot in cross fire, screams like wombs dropping,
a wailing that would impress you, sir
in your turtle neck.

You may not agree with my rationalizations,
but that does not exist here.
simple sensations, and suddenly you're captured.

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)