[spoken word poem] Hollow echoes in mind Reveal frozen, pre-formed thoughts; Hanging in gray matter, Like still-frames From the synapses, Waiting for Source warmth To melt them. It's cold in here, But never lonely. Spirits come And dance their dance. I patiently watch, From the back of the room. They entertain; But fool no one. The occasional drip reminds, Conceptual ice Will thaw eventually. Give it time. Thoughts can't form words In glacial drift, Everything's forced. Frustration keeps stubborn doors. A cornucopia of calamities Unwanted, but often needed In a poet's storeroom tundra. Lately, I'm low on stores. Not writing much these days, But I'm dreaming more. [end of spoken word]
