This is my means of survival.
Highlighted bookends.
Adjusted paperweights.
Arranged refrigerator magnets.
If I can simply keep things
from moving, I’ll know.
Fixed positions, steady on
this blue blurry ball.
Give me some space,
a bit of time,
and this continuum
will seem like
an unimpeded stream.
No noise or crescendo
lifting their praises.
Not a peep…
Then the rocks cry out.
Only the fridge and a computer fan
Whisper their condolences
To the solitude sought.
My mind, plenty loud like
Headphones clapped on
My ears, cymbals
On symbols of reception,
The white noise of
My own pseudo conclusions.
Psalm 51 like area 51
Draw my curiosity
To the mystery of grace
Folded into mercy
As the pairing of woofer
And tweeter balance
Morning upon mourning
Of music, while the songs
In the night fade.
Gerald the Writer 