I Need to Be Far from You to Still Love You in that Split Infinitive Spray of Muscular Language

Why don't you join a monastery 

and embrace the vow of silence,

I say to myself shelving mainstream

culture's raw culture like kefir, a constant

cloud just loud enough to interrupt

the flow of loss indigenous to worldly floss 

see-through far from the sea of seedlings 

with invisible names.

I tame myself by way of staves

containing the containment of unasked for

tones wracked with requisite intonation

to discard on cue. I loom to myself

I hum soon enough for the daily rooster

whose caw smarts pre-dawn across

the strangely zoned lawns and stables and barns.

If there is a hell my father never believed in, 

how is it that preaching stretches always toward

over-reach like a furnace pumped with coal, 

to spoil the home of all of us a ruckus constantly

trained to char the brain. How does my brain

leech from my heart and nothing within

the sense of hearing jar the otherwise polished

windows with a quake we only believe we hear

there is a tuning fork, unblemishing every caring

year we have lodged before us as if

what light flight scents upon the even oven line

of aloneness as meditation teaches one to cry

silently and preferably not at all?

I press my temples and bask in the asking price

for health and homing, if you can imagine

sorghum-free savory spree of wounded words

approaching perfect affection disguised as solitude.