Silence fills this space
dangerously,
expediting its lack.
Not the viscosity of that vacuous verbiage,
silence is continuous,
deep and vibrant,
meaningful and aware,
liquid and lax.

But then
noble Icarus waxes
the once waning ball of conversation,
comparing the stupidity of our parents.

The melodrama entices-
it's our field of expertise-
often superfluous-
mocked as dubious-
I despond over such despair.
I get what you say.
Rather, I don’t care,
when I hear an empty message
floating in black air.

The words are
worn,
devoid
of meaning.

An empty chant
of a generation
ping-pongs its way through the classroom.


We all have heard it-
it lingers beneath our numbed ears-
and curls in wisps about our sullen,
sulking minds.

When present,
it’s a smoldering musk,
diluted by my nihilism-
I rebuke it!
Alas- it is nothing.

It is buzzing minute.
No longer than a minute.
Worth less than a minute
But costs just the same
maybe more
when minutes are especially
rare

In a minute there is time?
In this minute there is nothing.
A white noise machine-
Does it enrage only me?

A repetitious ball of cacophony-
a thought too trite to bear-
it will split my skull,
rip my hair.
What are you spouting out today?
What is it that you mean?

Pallid repetition-
Death by ennui.