Every poets’ voice is distinct.

an indicative drawl or rasp,

a characteristic blend of dialect,

a certain brand of sarcastic humour;

dug deep somewhere in our fibers like fossils embedded in earth.

With needles, icepicks and toothbrushes,

we poets are archeologists; cliff hangers,

excavating antiques from marble

letting free the artifacts of angelic souls to sing.


My voice transforming

the past few months.

I only owe it to seeing

a more polished sculpture

clearly in the mirror of my skull.

I found the page working on me,

as I did my work on it

and when I open myself

to a perfect blank page;

us poets’ worst enemy,

it forces me to unfold

like a cotton napkin at dinner.

It seduces me into shedding layers

of the image image image

that I drape around myself,

my bathrobe of armour,

until I am finally nude

and the voice is free and true.


The tricky part is that we are usually

not accustomed to seeing ourselves

in such a light. That figure that is unknown to me,

laden with scars that are new to me.

Scars I never knew I had.  He is scary

but sly, almost charming with a crooked smile

and dead eyes. He knows me. He also knows

that I don’t know him. Every once in awhile, I let him speak.





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