This one, perhaps, will bring us quietness

This one, on the day
I numbly gave away the data
that assembled together slots me
in file cabinets in banks
and immigration offices.
I gave it away, headshot
passport number and what not
in exchange for
an app!
Is this a deep person’s version
of not caring enough to not want to hide
anything
for pleasure
while strangers watch?

This one, written in memory
or perhaps as a seance with myself and I, for my
long-gone quietness of heart.
Let’s cross fingers loosely that I will not,
again, tonight, dry up whatever waters
of life yet remain, by staring
late at night at blue lit fire,
thumbing up, dog tired but too
understimulated and
overstimulated, to sleep;
the deeps bewitched into
a constant whirl, sucking up noise
and clamour.

This poem is a prayer—
the effort of faith— on a day I
try again to return
to tying my self down, with words,
long enough to hear me think.
I’m staring into passersby,
my mouth dried by cheap coffee, like a parable, perhaps,
of something deeper and worse.
The cafe’s loud music, now volumed up
obsecenely, perhaps to help my
death by noise
so that this one doesn’t help
me remember that place
where still waters run,
and save me.