Daily Read

The cellist is rocking back
and forth
a tiny fishing boat
tossed
and lost
amidst the waves

The musicians
smash
into chords with their entire bodies
again-
and again-
throwing themselves
so completely into
this music, this storm
Everything is
lost.

And suddenly-
they are the eye of
the hurricane
a strangely still
sky
a single foghorn
in the dark of
night,
allowing us to-
and hope-
and hope-

We breathe in and hold it.
It is too late.
They are gone.

In the chipped paint & overgrown violets
of half-abandoned houses;
I'm dancing at the fringes,
trailing my fingers along
peeled
railings
and neglected vines.

Because there's something magnificent
about old houses:
something in the scent of ancient wallpaper,
elegance in the water-stained
floorboards and sun-splintered shingles.
"Antique" is precious because
You cannot fool Time,
and History is embedded in the very heart
of civilization
(& its materialism.)

We hoard
because the story of something
is often just as
beautiful
as the
thing itself.

Dangerous,
low,
mysterious,
melting
into innocent melody.
If I close my eyes,
I forget my surroundings,
hear only the song
drawn by bows
with such pure beauty.
The danger returns,
pounding heartbeat beneath
sorrowful refrain--
and then it is past,
forgotten,
lost in the soaring
flight of birds
and calming
whisper of wind.

Inspired by the rehearsal of the Mozart string quintet in g minor.

If the piece could be seen
it would be a rich
purple, deep
red, swirling
midnight blue.

It is a dance
in the shadows,
(a sad lovers’
serenade)
an innocent
in a forbidden land.

There are gypsies
and Georgian dancers
slipping between forests
and assembly rooms.

There is a spell
cast across the centuries
by a man many years ago
and five musicians
in today’s setting sunlight.

I wonder
if they can feel the pull
of the magic
as the last notes are drawn
from the strings and the bows

I love chamber music. While listening to great big orchestras is an incredible experience, listening to 4 or 5 musicians is undeniably more intimate. The music is just as powerful, and it’s almost as if you can hear it better. And I find it amazing that they are always able to stay together.

On this rainy day
we walk
downtrodden
with our eyes reflecting the grey of the sky
and our rain-stained shirts showing
the journeys we've made to come here.
We are weary
of this, that, and the other thing
and we seek leave of life and what is real.
In this place,
melodies and harmonies,
cadenzas and triads
make time slow
to a whisper of
knowing merely that
it is there.
I think this is a place where
I'd like to spend my days
with the time merely passing
in a downfall of
music to my ears.
Here, the rain is gone and
we can let our rain-stained clothes dry

I found this scribbled in a notebook...it's basically an overview of a typical bad day back in May/ June when I was just soo ready for school to be over. But I got a kick out of my grumpy side...enjoy :)

PERIOD 1: Band

(We put a bug catcher on the front porch, hoping to catch flies. We caught a dragonfly. This sort of thing breaks my heart just a little. And it reminded me of you.)

Right now, you might somewhere be over the Atlantic Ocean, Delaware, Georgia, West Virginia. Sitting with your eyes shut in an uncomfortable blue leather seat, your headphones plugged into your iPod, not the in-flight entertainment system. Bob Marley or Bob Dylan playing, I would never have understood the difference without you.
Thank you.

I like watching the beads of rain weave through the mesh of my window, the clouds gray to solemn shades, the strikes of lightening like a snake; so spontaneous, unexpected, menacing. I like watching the lights turn off in a domino effect, wave through the neighborhood until I’m the only one awake. It gives me power, control, like I’m the only one watching, and nobody will ever know. As the lights glimmer on the highway, New York flashes into the small suburb; tall skyscrapers, the bustle of cars, jingles of music humming through my ear.

We sat in your kitchen & we talked.
“Remember when we used to be best friends?”, I asked.
“Yes”, you said.
“We were a good match”, I said. I believed it, too. I believe that we were the best friends each other could have.
We needed each other.
“Yeah, we were”, you said.
“Why are you doing all this to yourself?”, I asked.
“Doing what?”, you asked.
“You’re smoking, John. You’re smoking & you’re drinking & I know you’re doing other stuff too. Why’re you doing it?”, I asked.
You shrug your shoulders.

Vacuum clean floors
Just because it's something
To do.
Dead flies and
Dust bunnies
(Dust usagis?)
Gather in the corners.
Vacuum in the dark.
It won't make a difference
(Until I run into somthing)

Vacuuming is dangerous
Because it leads to thinking.
A lot of thinking
Tends to happen
While vacuuming.

Thinking about
College.
I've got three
College interviews scheduled for
Next week.
"Why do you want to go to this college?"
I don't.
"What can you bring to this college?"
Nothing.
"Why this college and not that one?"

Those scars along the surface of her skin,
Aren't signs of just pain,
They are a sign of courage.
The wall that he built up,
was not to keep you out,
but to keep the secrets in.
The wall that she tore down,
wasn't just for your protection,
but for her own as well.
The day she ran away from his open arms,
was not because she doesn't love him,
but because she didn't want to hurt him.
The time I yelled at you,
And said those mean things,
Was because I was upset with myself.
I cried and cried,
You knock and knocked,
Wanting me to open the door to find you,

You had your chance. The camera got there first
while you languished, stale, caught up
in capturing the glint of rain on roads, walls,
roofs; light filtering grayly through a veil
of cloud. You were grasping for poetry
in this scene so familiar you can sketch it
with your fingertips in the dark-- You have.
Your teacher says repetition is the key
to mastery. At some point you'll realize
she means tuition, and stop paying.
For now you hold her words in your mouth,
tasting possibility. You'd like to sketch
this scene on her body, tracing the angles

For once in my life
I feel like an outsider.
I think I kind of like it
here.

Another Friday. Another fight.
"What do you want me to do, Jane? You want me to quit my job? You want us to be poor? Why are you being so selfish all of a sudden?"
I brushed the tears back. "All I asked was that you come home after work and not at 10 like last week. Remember Pat? When you were drunk?"
"Oh I remember all right... And I found my best friend sitting on the couch with you." He snarled.
"Patrick! I told you a million times! I called him to see if you were with him and he came over! Nothing happened."

Fantasies form in
my mind
while blisters
form on my heels.

I can taste your name
on my lips
crisp & sweet
as fresh-picked
shiny red strawberries.
I can hear your voice
in my sleep,
singing me
a melody
to give me goosebumps
like the sun
on my back.

& as I trace
your name on my skin
I wonder what
my love is
doing now.

I lay back in the sharp
green grass
and watch it
grow & sway
in the
nonexistent breeze.
Because in Summer, Highland Falls, air
stands still - probably
trying to set an example
for time.

This summer
lives in love.
In clifftops

I once heard,
That fear is the heart of love
so I guess
I'm terrified
Cause love of mine,
I think I'm in love with you.
I want to experience
the feel of the ocean again,
with you by my side.
Will ice cream taste even sweeter
while you hold my hand?
So love of mine,
I'm ready to find out.
So take my hand
And fall in love again.
Cause love of mine,
if I had a star,
for each time you have made me smile,
I would own the galaxy.

*NO ONE WAS HARMED IN THE WRITTING OF THIS PIECE*

Remember me before the drugs.
Remember me before I was always crying.
Remember me before I made the biggest mistake.
I jumped.

Dear "Whoever is reading this",

It's probably too late. I'm gone. For good. I want you to rememeber me when I was happy. When I was playful and didn't have red, watery eyes. Those were the better days.

Just Remember.

For the last time,
Someone.

He is only lungs and toes
with finger tips and
dangling arms. He is only
breaths and lungs and
he will not be here for long.

Pulling history and imagination
to his wayward pointing
eyes, lost in symmetry- intimacy
beauty-lies and butterflies,
he is tasting dirt and
air and blood and
getting nowhere.

He is suspended and endless;
liquid shadows lighting
his straight carved edges.
It will be his great pleasure
to touch the ground again.
It is just a tempered dream.
He is bloodied palms

There is something
indescribable,
so despicable
in the way the waves
refused to hold me.
Tide-breakers
smashed against my walls
but I refused to crack.
The dams in my lungs
did not shatter
& my chest did not flood.

But the mountains
mocked me
whilst I floated,
high & mighty
above their
grammatical imperfections.
The cliffs would not
echo the subjunctive
when I shouted your name,
always screaming,
“If I were there
(if I was there),
you wouldn’t be crying

The sky, like sandstone
once Helios sank
beneath the horizon,
hung itself in bands,
soft & sweet
peach sherbet --

auburn,
orange,
magenta,
grey --

& Selene took
her brother’s place
once the vestiges of his light
faded.

She danced with invisible stars
‘til she could shine no more
& the clouds cried
when she hid behind them.

[The sky is an aquarium
& up there
the fish never drown.]

She turned the volume up on her ipod, hoping to drown out the sound of the newscaster's droning voice on the crackling radio. Her head jerked to the side as her father swerved on the road to avoid some kind of animal. She clenched her jaw and swallowed several times when her mother said, "it's just going to get run over by somebody else anyway."

We all own time but
We dole it out like
Gamblers on a losing streak gonna
Win the next one, that’s
All we’re hoping and
I’m still waiting for my life to begin,
To win you, to own somethin’ true cause
The longer I stick around
The harder joy is to be found it’s like
Waiting for the grass to grow in winter I know

Here I am, here I go, my wheels are spinning but
I’m tired of sittin’ gotta
Plane to catch gotta
Get outta this mess and
I’ll miss you but I’ll send a card
Cause time’s still ticking and
I’m gonna start winning gonna
Live while I’m still alive

And I hear the song,
And brings me back to that front porch,
That sandy river bank,
That wooden covered bridge.
It brings me back to a place
Of total freedom.
That old RV at four A.M
Listening to "Life Goes On",
That cold basement floor
We would sneak across to the back door
And go out all night.
I remember being caught in the storms,
Three miles from home as it pours buckets,
Soaking wet on my bike racing through the rain.
I remember her being the sweetest thing I could ask for,
I remember the sleepless nights of Facebook and phone calls,

i.
And apparently
when the whipped cream can
runs out
it just sprays
something close to steam.

I'd heard that
whipped cream shots
were the cure for everything.

But what do you do
when there isn't
any left?

ii.
Everything's all weird.
Like I'm running out of time.
I can't
get rid of the feeling.

It's scary.

I'm supposed to
have all the time
in the world, remember?

Hours are rushing past me
in a blur of
wind and smoke,
and I can't
see anything.

iii.
Time has always
confused me.
It speeds past
the things you want

Author's Note: This is unedited, as I'm writing it for school and it's late and due tomorrow. But yeah. Feedback, anyone? I think I like it.

~~~

Creation Game

There was nothing. A beautiful, vast expanse of nothing, spanning everything ever known or unknown. It neither shimmered, nor shivered, nor shook, nor spoke. It did not breathe, it did not think, it did not live. It was nothing.

It's the smiles and the waves and even the friendly nods. It's the "hello"s and "how are you"s and "I missed you when you were gone"s.

It's the yearbook messages filling up page after page, so meaningless but so true. So full of secrets and words that will mean something different years from now.

It's the words. The way they flow and create and twist around like a child in her pretty pink Easter dress. Twirling and swirling and spinning in circles that turn into a wonderful mess of beauty.

I work towards putting the stand down.

I’m not good at beginnings, and yet they’re the most exciting. There’s so much promise at the start, so much uncertainty and possibility.

I can hear everything more clearly when the stand is down. I set aside the books and carefully push back the curving black wood.

If there is a book of music left on a shelf, never played, is it worth anything?

Did anybody ever bother
apologizing to the cities we bombed?
Did anybody ever acknowledge
that maybe what we did was wrong?

Hey, Hiroshima and Nagasaki;
would you believe me if I said I was sorry?

We gave you cancer
and radioactivity;
we gave you pain and the
loss of your cities.
Do you think you can live?
Think that you can forgive?

Hey, Hiroshima. Nagasaki.
Please believe me when I tell you I’m sorry.

Nobody deserves
that kind of pain.
And what did we
gain?
Mmhmm.

Oh, Hiroshima, Nagasaki;
I tell the truth when I say that I’m sorry.

And I thought,