I could hear the simple melody from afar. Correction: I could see it. Beautiful blue electricity crossed my vision. As I walked across the campus and passed the sun-bleached green picnic tables, the colors danced enticing me to follow. Sensuous electric fingers pleading and pulling. On the concrete steps, sweating in the sun, sat a lone guitarist, or maybe it was just the guitar. I cannot seem to recall. The guitar wailed and I, looking around, was the only one listening. Does music exist for the creator or the listener? I do not know. All I do know, however, is that without either it cannot exist, and, with only one, it cannot truly live. There is a symbiosis. An osmosis of emotion. Without which, the music is naught. The music is dead.
The sun sets,
the music recedes,
and the death of day begins.
In order to get a song out of one’s head,
an individual must listen to the song
in its entirety.
Are the ones we love
a beautiful looped verse?
Do you have to live with them
for a life time
before you can get them out of your head?
Ask the river,
illuminate the soliloquy.
Saturate the cathedral with saffron
and condemn the bishop,
he’s a commanding kibitzer.
Orchestrate the machine
while dancing with shopping carts
as lace transcends fire with shear mastication.
A pierced eye vanishes in the jungle
questing for adventure.
turned on me again.
Promising prose and poetry
but producing cacophonous chaos.
It frolics freely as I sit shackled in
What if we were the dreams of gods?
Entities of impossibilities
restricted to a realm of beings where
only the possible is a possibility
and the improbable impossible.