November 27, 2011

World of Hearing                                                             

There's something about the piano. 

Simple lyric-less expression into keys
Notes like post-its everywhere I turn my face
surrounding me
reminding me of a simple world,
Simplicity returning to a tired mind
Falling into lullabies...
There's something about the piano. 

Eerie weary tired sounds
Reverberating once and twice and again
Singing invitations
to slip inside a world 
where echoes softly play
and cover wounded hearts

A place where tears are old clothes
Worn and worn into wasted rags
But nobody cares because
     The norm is emotional. 
The regular passerby wave
 in somber contemplation
 lost in secret melodies,
  Dreams running free,
  Effortless imaginations. 

Carried here in my willing heart
I am moved
This resting place holds me
Gentle like a hammock swaying,
 back and forth,
Swaying this body 
 moving me,
 slowing my breath into trance-existence 
and singing the eyelids shut,
   Yes, there's 
    something about the piano. 

Something about the swift motion on ivory
sweeping melodies into my consciousness
Like I never had a choice
Those fingers, graceful and swift,
 somehow so ignorant
Perhaps intentionally oblivious to
 open hearts, real words, and Lyric.
The secret whispers of
Thoughtful silence in a mind 
  that weeps another tragedy,
Are heavy ringing for the world,
Yet shut in a closed room.

Dancing softer sounds
slow and come to an end
Honey tasting rhythms,
Haunting thousands of my years,
Bow and retire

  I emerge.

Sweet bliss is stolen 
And reality reminds me,
hits me like a frontal car collision.
Fluidity turns blunt like truth 
to innocent ignorance
and the careless swimming of my thoughts
ceases to yield a pleasant wonder.

In honest sadness I go
 And when I do
I want to take him with me
Where haunting never dares
To weigh down the hopeful heart
And eternity
Sweeps hopeful dreamers off their feet
And into so much more than sleep,
Sweet moments of new life
Reality sweeter, warmer, better than a hot mug
Bringing comfort 
On the wings of notes
 sung in creativity with a purpose
Knowing that no matter the task,
completed here now whenever,
Doing doing doing becomes 
rest in written freedom,
giving reasons to run and

A sweet newness awaits.
it will beget wisdom 
in the refining of learning
 because theorizing is dead 
  locked away with the keys 
   played forever and ever
in the 
arms of peace and
melodic enlightenment
we listen hear and know

it is finished.

November 3, 2011


if art isn't a product of contemplation 
i don't know what is

thoughts in the form of prayer
for comfort?
for beauty, for visual appreciation?

the simplest phrases
and its just a figment, fraction, piece of mind
produced by naive imagination?

perhaps it is a pining desire
for transformation
imagined self-improvement plans
conjured up in minds
upon seeing pages in a book

one book,
speaking wisdom into my heart
like a live thing
it is alive

believe there is.
hope for the upcoming.

i know anxiety like none other
mostly inside dedicated moments
where my perfection tries
and my reflection lies.

art is the somewhat-graceful
child of losing oneself into a loud state of 
that which is thinking...
and then
Revelation breaks through
and the easy silence
holding three parcels,
unconditional things,
brushes my thoughts in passing
and i am free.

November 2, 2011


The mundane, separating sheets of paper,
tasks given and completed.
A friendly conversation,
easy, formulaic, solvable.

This testing room,
blank, dull, like the mind
after a rampage of frustrated actions.

Forever there will be the knowledge of a better time.
Perfect memories, flawless through the lens of distance
and, well, sheer nostalgia.

She cuts.
She cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts.

I speak. Words?

If we speak truth into a bucket of lies
there will be war.
Just wait. A mind of lies hates its enemies
and swarms them to slaughter them in sheer numbers.
In the folds of self-comfort they will hide,
depreciating whatever comes into their trap,
and pounce on light like it's tangible.

There is a warrior who tells me to fight
he says things like
"I am with you."
And I wish the happy,
under years of darkness, would resist.
Not to squirm as if already taken,
but rise
rise to the place that it is,
fulfill its creational intention,
become a conquering entity
love in screaming persistency
to the point of revolution--
he is telling me to fight.

And I will.
with loyalty
piercing indifference,
lashes deepening conversation,
and love
gifts in knowledge of companionship.

I will fight. with my counterculture weapon.
and while that 
horrible abundance of falsity 
it is not bottomless...
like the best daddy he tells me I am free
to ask for anything
ponies and dolls
and strength in numbers
so I beg
I beg until I cannot breathe
and she moves.
I am reminded of the home
she will forever have in my heart.
Stirring whispers truth
in words
written long ago,
trust glides into the place
where anxiety was,
and the air to my lungs becomes hope.