Radio Nowhere…



*Written in the wilds of Northern Virginia March 4, 2009 and slightly before texting became the premier method of communication due to the proliferation of smart phones

Sometimes as connected as one can be to others, there are times when you just miss. The world I grew up in was devoid of cell phones. It was different. You actually made plans to be available to make a call, or wait for someone to call you. In retrospect, I believe there was a delicious vulnerability in that. Today, access is too easy, and less importance is made of the romance of calling someone. As routinely made calls find way to voicemail, an no one answers directly. Screening the meaning I suppose. Oddly enough, after someone listens to the voicemail left by the caller, they in turn call back, only to routinely find their way to voicemail. This goes on ad infinitum, and nothing gets said. Well, actually, what is not said, but communicated, is that your message really determines if your original call merits a return phone call. The necessity that cell phones supposedly were created to address, has made communication an obtuse dependency, devoid of meaning. It has caused us to be necessarily available, but not accountable to almost instantaneous connection. I think something is lost, perhaps in anticipation, maybe longing, hell just the plain randomness of taking a chance in placing a call in hopes that you might catch that person before they leave their home. Well, the progress we have made has delivered us to a solitary place. A place where you can always reach anyone, at anytime, as long as they’ll have you.

Radio Nowhere


The Elegy of Loss

This silence knows no bounds.
It taunts me, despite my intention.
Missing earthly rounds.
Explosive hypertension.
Half a man that once was full.
Unexpected silence.
Life’s bitterest and final rule:
Death visits us in violence.
Meaning sought for such a turn,
Escapes the grasp of reason.
Avoid the truth, escape concern,
Denial is more pleasing.
The void comes one, the void comes all,
Despite our machinations.
The loss of faith is my great fall,
And affords no protestations.



Fresh paper full of silence.
Never about or because, just perhaps.
Patterns emerge, ways unfold.
Taunting, teasing, goading.
Encouraging, forming, being.
A poet’s quantam, this blank page..
Thought before feeling, or feeling before thought?
Does the intellectual sojourner know the way?
She probably doesn’t know as much as she says she does.
Forgotten words are never thought, never written, never read, and never spoken.
Never loved.
Only the subconscious can account for all of these things.
But he never seems to be able to recall them when called upon.
The secrets are buried until provocation guides them up.
Words thought, words written, words read, words spoken.
Words remembered.
Words loved.
The indentations the pen makes on the blank page are quite lovely.