purpose of writ

if no one reads is it really writ?

at night i wake
streams of words
some rushing like a swollen river
full of surprises
realizations
like sharp rocks
skinning our ego
shot through the rapids
the lesser to get any deeper
meaning

as if...

others meandering
as though
deep swollen bayous
home to gators
old man bodies
decomposing
here and there
deep stagnant pools
we gag
pulled under
our weakness showing

as if anything else
there was

not troubled to preserve it
none
instead
writing, imagining
the empty space
behind vacant eyes

the moon scuds
cloud shufflings
the dark silence
absorbing all the wrongness
til once more
heaviness takes hold
forcing us down
to another sleep
unknowing as the rest.

In the morning,
whenever we wake,
nothing remains
dim memories
faint in wistfulness
wondering
can we ever reclaim
that short peace

In futility
in ignorance
we write
what we think
we recall
knowing all along
we remember nothing
more than a feeling
strange in its quietude
trying to replicate

If we can connect
though fleetingly
with one in us but not connected
is it not selfish
hoping to connect
with an other
not here?

and so we write
it is writ
unread
the purpose?

Not a clue.

-------------
not that ...
but should a reader stumble
does it matter,
style, form or others, else?
about what is
what should be?
Some
pure poetry
some
anything but.
some connected
seeming so amyway --
here is one
there another
a poetry here,
and others not

and then are the photos
raw and shopped, mundane to soaring ....

is there anything to say
not already said, exhibited better than can be?
No one here has anything to say
and less to show for it
Maybe we all have nothing to say.
Still...
i've done nothing for time
only to have nothing to say ...
not willingly

noise is not better
than not
better to be quiet
put to sleep only to pretend
being, doing
when there's nothing at all.