Talking

We talk poems, or poems talk us, The talk is submerged in everyday speech, it is always writing, always traveling on the breath always announcing from a mute heart. Try not to be bored, with the seemingly, mostly mundane ripples atop of much deeper waves. Try to be kind to the complaints and ramblings of the body/mind house of mirrors, that kind of talk needs to be translated, interpreted by songbirds that fly not this outer world. Likewise, all logical discussion is code, a way of expressing the questionable in a thousand variations of 'maybe'. All answers to logical theories must be unravelled, revealed by poetry or they are but a smokescreen something to be penetrated within a cosmic poem. Listen, listen as deeply as you can. Birds are singing, waves are crashing upon our senses. There is a talking that the mind is unaware of. Listen, it is you, it is all you happening now, you talking you listening as you scribble on the air. Those moments you give to yourself are the words of your everyday God, - that poem that both talks and listens.