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
Singapore.

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.

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

Outside
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
For
A short time.

Here
In this quiet room
There is a softness
A stillness
Ephemeral
As the arbitrary
Thoughts
Causes
Reactions
Views
Smeared
On brightly glowing
And boundless screens
That keep us all
Connected.

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

Back then
A guy
By the name of
Charles Bukowski
Dwelled
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
Drunk
Mad
Unrelenting.

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
10
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
Forgotten
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.

Advertisements

One response to “In Stillness

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s