The answers in the trail mix
drove me on home,
As I spoke a poem
to my microphone.
It doesn't quite flow
and loses its glow.
It's not got the feel
of pen hitting paper.
Nor the clickety clack...
that type of writer.
My voice echoes too loud
as I speak onto this page.
I announce punctuation...
dot dot dot...
that dictation...
Increases my awareness
Of my awkwardness.
Takes me straight out of where poetry lives. Cuz in my head those words wander real loud, and they run to the paper,
yet as I speak them aloud;
unfiltered, it feels
like a fabricated robotic monotony
of written dis-ease.
All that which does not please.
Feels as if I am violating my words,
taking away their privacy
and their right to be written
Before they are spoken.
For somewhere between
my voice and the screen
that place where pen meets paper
Or clickety clack of the typewriter...
A space where I meet my maker,
the words lose their eloquence,
elegance and power
.
This verbal stream of consciousness is just...