In Stillness

There is something
To be said about a quiet room.

No ticking clock
No lunchtime chatter
No planes overhead,
Their grumbling bellies
Moaning into blue space
From Oakland to LA
And then

There is a softness
A stillness
Buried in the soul of a quiet room.

A quiet room is the place
Where thoughts glisten
Like the sun’s reflection
On a flawless diamond.

Merge lanes are trampled
By the worn tires of rushed agendas.

Everyone seems to be in a hurry
To get somewhere;
So stuck on that place
They don’t recognize
They’re already here
And only
A short time.

In this quiet room
There is a softness
A stillness
As the arbitrary
On brightly glowing
And boundless screens
That keep us all

Back in 1975
It wasn’t as easy
To get the word out.

Back then
A guy
By the name of
Charles Bukowski
In the cheap, non-so-quiet
Rooms of West Hollywood.

He listened to classical music
On a shitty radio
With a flimsy antenna
Surrounded by smoke-stained walls
And empty glass bottles
That clanked together
As he dipped the keys
Of an abused typewriter
Nearly a half-inch
Like a puppeteer
That bows his wooden doll
To the uproarious audience
Of loyal followers.

He would bang away
All night

In the morning
(noon for him)
He would hoist
His dense hangover upright
Puke in the toilet
And then stroll down
The sidewalk
(His belly hanging out
From below a beer-blemished tee
And over the waist of tattered chinos)
To a mailbox
To drop in
Or 20 poems
Stuffed into a envelope
To get
The word out.

He walked home (noticing the skirts of women and the legs that carried them)
Fried two eggs
Ripped an obnoxiously
Ringing telephone
From the wall
Stuffed it in the gas oven and
Then drove to the horse track
To lose $20;
The only $20 to his name.

He’d drive home
On fumes if he had to
To sit at his typewriter
In a room in 1975
That was only quiet after midnight
To depress the keys
While empty glass bottles banged together
On his card table
Never knowing
That in another 35 years
All he’d have to do
Is reach over to a bedside stand,
Grab a skinny device
And tap the screen
To touch the whole world
With his words.

In this quiet room,
April 11, 2013
The past is present
And progress is not important
As the hummingbirds chirp
And this poem goes out
Into the ether
To be read
And then
As a newer, quickly emerging change
Pops into a digital newsfeed
And then goes away
To replaced by the next
And so on
And so on
And so on
And so on.

One response to “In Stillness

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