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. 

Sometimes

Eerie weary tired sounds

Reverberating once and twice and again

Beckon--

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.

After

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,

 Consequence

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

And 

in the 

arms of peace and

melodic enlightenment

we listen hear and know

it is finished.

Think                                                                             

if art isn't a product of contemplation 

i don't know what is

thoughts in the form of prayer

for comfort?

no

for beauty, for visual appreciation?

the simplest phrases

resonate

and its just a figment, fraction, piece of mind

produced by naive imagination?

no

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.

Ruby                                                                                   

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
ingenious
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 
lingers,
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.