Won’t Listen

Hair felt fake today.

Stopped singing to myself
when people
passed near me.

Skipped brushing my teeth
before bed;
was so tired.

For the things he speaks of
are much more
than bacon.

Walked to the verge
of the forest,
still poor.

He must be missing
an ear.

Went home,
washed it down
with cold milk.

Rise to Bless You Still

A satellite whirs by
in my stead.

Jupiter hums
despite its big red wound.

I can still hear it still—
not notes, but spaces between them.

A well of darkness as deep
as the crest of light.

Its heart bleeds

So it sings.

<the sonNET/>

Type in the protocol HTTP
something-dot-something. Thanks, Tim Berners-Lee.
Index my words like one of Google’s bots.
Request to be served and I will serve your request,
coding the secrets of human kind,
an epicenter of God, love, and thought.
Just don’t click there.
For my data is overflowing,
and it’s hard to find spirit with a web browser;
love doesn’t pop up like a Flash ad;
Wikipedia doesn’t substitute for a mind.
I don’t know if I can fit much more with my history,
but discoveries in small spaces remain my mystery.