Fortner Anderson's poems are found on several CD compilations (see www.wiredonwords.com), and have been published in Poetry Nation (Vehicule Press, 1998) and the Short Fuse anthology (Rattapallax, 2002). His new CD, "Six Silk Purses" will appear on the Ambiance Magnetiques label (Spring 2005). At work he scribbles and each night he pastes the ruined bits onto canvas. (www.fortneranderson.com)

There is false quiet in the place
where you have come to rest.
A sound insinuates.
It murmurs from some distant site or time
echoes down hallways dimly lit.
It percolates between the floors
in this edifice with rooms innumerable.
A susurrus passed among the minds
it has traveled generations
to find you in your growing quiet
amidst books and dust, and pencils grown dull.
The small noise feeds upon your ear alone.
Its weight bends your back and makes you old.
And it must end, you vow.
You irritate the neighbors, good folk
with investigations and intrusions.
You throw down wild claims,
there are secrets and things known by you alone.
Your accusations ring absurd
in living rooms
where nothing ever changed.
You speak, vibrations shake the air
they shimmer against the hard presence
of papered walls and credenzas filled with souvenirs
and dissipate
till they are as nothing.
Neighbors then friends then lover mock
they doubt and point into the world
Look no further,
an electric light, the fridgedaire
Here is the noise that stains.
They offer words and words and words
to obscure a fissure that has opened
between your mind and theirs.
Their declarations pile against the void
till you are well immured,
and very much alone.
And still you hear the pulse,
that beats, aged and infirm,
that can't ever
let you
be.


Fortner Anderson
c 2003