Knowing you knowing me, I wonder at the miracle of twin jackals being pulled from the mud. What is the essence of a word, other than the soft underbelly of the tongue?

Let me be clear,
I am not
under the impression
of greatness or even
mediocrity. It might be
said that I do
not even write but
rather absorb words
and thoughts that creep
up from the walls
surrounding me. I can hear
their echoes like hungry
ghosts, all plasma and
grumbling, those dearly departed
before dinner. I
can sit in a room
and wait
for the lights to dim,
the shades to shift.
I can draw pentagrams
in the smoke of chalk,
dematerialize into
the smoke of clay.
But I cannot say
that I have
had an original thought
in my life. I cannot speak at all.

Sometimes I forget
how rare and beautiful
a thing people are.
Then I am remembered
by an inner bursting,
a smile deeper than skin,
that old familiar
arc of kinship.

My lack of appetite for
glossed images, glazed pastry and cold
word salads can be seen
in my avoidance of all things
chemical or technicolor.
I'm not sure if this is real
or just reactionary
but when I think
about my roommate's voice, it turns to tin.
He is speaking from inside
the wall, inside a snare drum.
The more I yearn for greeness,
the stiffer my words become,
the harder it is to swallow.
There is a banquet of sound
resonating from these empty branches;
there are whole days I want to consume.

Trinkets

I had a dream last night about the way I used to love the things you gave me; tiny shards of glass with smiling faces, engorged strawberries in sugar coats, hands like palm fronds (or maybe the other way around). I remember dreaming of the jar of shells you collected on the beaches of Cancun. Your mother told me the story of how you crossed the thin skeletons of sea creatures like a tight-rope walker. You would spread your arms, embrace the wind and then dive like a pelican into the sand, fingering the creamy pinkness of the shell's shoulder. You brought hundreds of them home to me, in a jar filled with water. I remember saying (or dreaming), "Oh, Patrick!" but that wasn't your name.

In other news

I have realized
my own small hands,
their failure to eclipse
certain ripe fruit.

I have assimilated
fragmented memories
of the lives of others,
a Christmas tree, a kiss.

I have let go
of bright-colored nights,
birds of paradise, perched
on my shoulder, whispering

I have a secret.

Jonathan Bates' Shakespeare biography will change your life. Soul of the Age, read it, kids.

I have come to the realization that my friends are not the blog-reading type. In fact, they are better described as java-hating, bike-poor, meat-eating wretches; otherwise known, as the chronically un-hip. Yet, I feel proud to know they have not yet given up on print media.