a half-truth and a cookie

and, I 'm fucking tired of being quiet and keeping the piece of me silent that shouts against the sky
and mouth open ingests the horizon
as it laps against the penumbra, the word that I learned from William, that's in my pda
and I cannot bring it to mind

but I eat the blue hour, the essential hour before silence
and the joy of living is in the silence of expressing more than words with our voices
and using this thing that burns into our flesh for something more than pain
and yes, this world
is pain
and grief
hollowed our hearts that sit in half-shamed silence
dark streaks against the boom-boom of your voice
as I hear
how little I am
how little I have
how little I have become in accepting myself
and pushing the hot poker to the piece of me that remains unseen I forfeit
my heart in search of my soul

against the sky what else is there besides the winds
and the sharp talons of hooked beaked hawks
dust and light filter across the field kicked up by city folks driving subarus on farm roads
and the dust settles over the crops and into my boots, hair, nose all full
and I am more allergic to my mother than anything else

I find this deeply disturbing http://www.swisslink.com/ and yet I could probably shop there for years satisfied