Poetry by its nature requires a great deal of revision before it’s very good. Blogging, however, is sort of like a diary. It’s more of a stream of consciousness kind of genre. I know this, and yet I’m still including poetry here. I don’t claim it’s great. It’s just how my mind works. Sometimes my own mind needs to word things this way so that I can understand myself. If I think it’s worthy I’ll spend more time on it later. If not, it’s just a window into my way of thinking. So here’s the latest thought:

I cannot see the stars from
here in the city
town down from midnight
clouds and buzzing human
thrum. 

I feel the moist in the best
nights, softening the noisy
edges and spreading thick on
my twelfth floor leaves but no,
I cannot hear them. 

They all do their best and I
love them for that. They’re simply
come-over by industry, business 
and thrall. 

The invisible stars meet the
silent leaves and shimmer
in the mist. But my love is
too small, too much on
my self. 

I need to be surrounded, and
not with people
(though some are special and 
keep me alive). I need to hear the
wind-singing cellulose,
flying shadows under the
moon with untidy green beneath,
breathing kinetic sculpture into
the ground. 

The invisible stars hum just 
the same. But I am too deaf
to hear them. The dancing toy
trees keep their beat, but 
my heart is too far to
join them.