I cry out
into my
new room.
Nobody
answers.
But I mean
it’s just me
here, so why
would they?
I was just
reading a
creepy-
crawly
extension
of my vocabulary;
a few lines that
make up what
most might call
a poem. What?
Do I think I’m
a poet? I have
written some
thing and I
look it over.
Then I
wonder,
could this
be my voice?
Confused, or
maybe con
founded, I
read the
thing
aloud.
Invisible,
I flood the
airwaves
with my
words,
both
written
and spoken.
This is my
reaction to
what I do.
