taking Bono's advice and writing about silence
To be a writer, one must write,
And so tonight I feel as more of a being,
One who is, who does not do;
Like Mr. Cohen I am content to see through lenses
And wonder how the hell I got here,
Knowing full well that I did not arrive of my own accord
But let the tide carry me away into
A world where poets cannot dream for fear
Of disappointing Calliope's stream of consciousness
Which feeds into the fingers that
Dare not grasp a pen or leave print on keyboard.
So I am struck dumb by the sound of my
Own voices that echo off the hollowness of
My skull; I hold it up and say to Horatio,
"Alas, I knew her once, and now I know her
All too well, for I have made a home inside her brain."
For I only receive, I do not give, and am become
A very model of a modern major poetess
Whose opera has gone strangely quiet.