i'm afraid i have nothing to say

a voodoo man stole my voice
in a dream last night


he didn't like my cigarettes


he stood over me with
otherworldly powers
and all i could do was stare

helplessly

at the spanish moss draped to frame
my imminent death

and every scream
from every other dream
clotted in my throat


dressed in his sunday best
the voodoo man stole my voice

i became envious of the swamp
and its song
and prayed for a jazz funeral

black umbrellas and polished brass
and i'll bury my thoughts because
the voodoo man stole my voice.

a poem for midnight

nothing makes a sound

so i fall asleep to
the hum of my thoughts,
a quiet and constant stream of
things consumed
only for the mere act of
consuming.

and i perform for myself.
and i perform for you
until my muscles weigh of memories
that i have no intention of keeping.

in the absence of sound
i watch myself move in circles,
a tired shuffle,
a push and pull of the in-betweens.

and i just want to let go

and sleep deeply in this silence
until the new day offers
the familiarity of promise.