( an answer to an existential question)
Do I even want to be heard?
My thought simply bubbles up
A line sets me off in a rush of words
And all play of image and sound
Ripples from my tongue, or
Roars, in a ranting demonic trashing
Of something wrong or evil with
Morality puffed up or in despair.
I must ease frustration, let my heart free,
Speak gently of my love for you,
Or advertise my awe and wonder
About my camp of unknown readers.
But sometimes I hold a mirror
To peer into the hollow room of myself
From my conscious dreaming
Thoughts run together, enjambing sense
And sensibility as I do this —
For you, and for me
in the doing of it.
Kent Bowker 2/1/2012