Ken Poyner, 04/12


Silence sits itself down.
It crosses it legs and begins
To take a cigarette from
Its shirt pocket,
But this is a no-smoking restaurant.
The street noise vanishes
And I think to myself
How much god-awful racket
Simple unrelated/random commerce
Brings to any thing.
Silence uncrosses his legs, smoothes
The imaginary seam of his rum dark pants,
And the kitchen goes dumb –
No plates wobbling at the counter,
All the forks and knives without tongues,
The spoons suspended.
Silence brushes a shock of hair
From his forehead and the waiter
Moves without disturbing the air:
No shoe fall, no laudatory
Counterbalancing of the tray.
His pen no doubt could display
And retract muffled as though by oceans.
I am hearing my heart beat,
The blood now angry in my ears
And the sound of heme and oxygen
Soothing the carnival brain.
Silence is looking at me.
My heart does not thunder,
It barely flutters like loose paper,
But I see he is listening.
He leans forward.


We are fine figurines,
Paper cut in one unending motion,
Our intricacies no more
Than proof of talent.
The imaginary in an imagined  world:
A concatenation of two dimensional carpenters, businesswomen,
Plumbers, mothers, accountants,
Fairies and pole dancers,
All held together by being
Pulled of one continuous sheet.

Paper cut in so much detail cannot last.
I can feel in my cellulose
What rending will do to us,
What we will be as mere material.
And then more paper,
Folded over and over,
Folded into armies,
The independence of physical limitations,
The interdependence of craft
And method, tools and tinkering,
Folded back in against itself:
Equal, harmonious, even when poorly cut.
Discover this art.
Invite us into your world.
Give us names,
Seduce us into your first kiss,
Think of our sex as something you have made yourself,
Then think you can do it again,
At will again and again,
The scissors agape with wonder.

Promote. Poetry.
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