If there were something worthwhile to say, I might open my mouth
and swallow you whole,
masticate your small bones, relish in splinters.
If I were dying of a nasty disease, and my voice was the first to go,
every last word I spoke would be
mighty important, so why can’t you shut up and listen. Now
I have a young friend who painted these words on his black bedroom wall;
“Open your closed mind and close your open mouth.” Enough said.
Mindless muttering of fools, this, trying too hard to make each word count.
Like this poem, characters filling up the page with pretense
cursive chatter eating
the white space.