Thursday, March 13, 2008

The Day The Music Died

Hold the stick
The rhythm seems smooth with delicate, cautious tempo
But metronomes change too suddenly
Then delay the drumroll
While notes remain splattered on this concert hall's ceiling
Waiting for the final autograph score
Before I let my hands follow the poor director's lead
He should know that the music in me 
is gone
and dead
crushed to a pulp and powdered into dust
like a Monarch's touched wings
at the final clause of winter...
no more song, mister. And I do regret.

The first yellow days put across lovely visions
Such cream-filled, storybook dreams 
Of a grand symphony composed by Consonance
Held together with harmonies so finely tuned...
And I was eager to play
Intent on hearing sounds of my own shaping
Avid on giving away a little more each time
Missing a little more melody
every pitch took me higher, into greater realms of 
dismissed exertion
aborted fancies
the usual...
and clearly
hearts burned on too short of a wick.

Only a few more ways to give
To replay that "ditty of bliss"
Except the same old frenzied arrangement
Crawls from parchment to printed copy paper
Da capo, with a bit more bended tessitura
And careful counts into the next measure...
My dear amanuensis,
I could stake your life on the leger lines
above and below the pretended pitch
I would bet that you run during seconds uncounted
crying in the winds of color that rush past your face
the volume rising from serenely soft
to absurd, fortissimo howling
shocking depths of unlocked tenderness

caesura, caesura
we don't count time while in love
take your breath mark while I live still strumming
and take it slow
none can steal this tempo from my pulsing veins
we don't count time while in love.

Saturday, March 8, 2008

Little by Belittle

I cannot undertake this tidal wave of your teasing...
In and out again, I am washed up with just enough breath
To carry my soul through to the next round.
Grains of sand make their way to my throat
Burning like an acid sample
While the distant lighthouse sends out its searchlight
For my broken bones over the shores.

What am I? Some nail to please your Carpenter's tricks?
Beat me and beat me until I've given in to the hammer's head...
Still I think you should know that I tend to (t)rust
At the most inconvenient times.
I suggest that you spare your perfectly crafted tools 
For I cannot live up to these labors of love
And maintain any remaining shards of nerve.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

I Am: Part II

I am 
An artist with words
A Draftsman of disembodied thought
Davinci with a new set of oils
(Curious to where Real begins before it ends...)
Rembrandt in the renovated man's era
A Picasso mocking color in theory

Coarsely worn bristles are my lyrics
So delicately laid upon this canvas of cloth
(One that I tend to call Apathy)
They give texture to ordinary streaks
Though none of us "poets" see ordinarily
For our eyes are shut tight by the adhesive of ashes
We breathe in pastels of the most intoxicating nature

I am 
Susceptible to the wills of an amateur's desires
I can play like Daguerre with camera obscura
Capturing still, black-white frames
Of Deadness

charred feathers floating pitifully 
through the tunnels of dusk
graceless and stiff
over Intuition's bloodied trenches.