I Miss… I Crave-

The tease of the ivory keys caressing my fingers
Swaying to the lullaby of the notes so precious
And ever present -they take me away
To a magical realm of sight and sound and harmony;
I want to return to the space of silence and meditation,
The resonance of the chords, the light aria of the melodies,
The foundational left to the playful and free right;
Together, sound the partnership,
Play a perfection,
Bring the heavens of the sky closer;
Sight unseen, yet I can hear them sing,
My heart beats wildly, my breath -an afterthought
As all I can hear, all I can see is the sound of emotion
Pouring from my heart to those ivory keys.

The mystery: how can your notes still give meaning to my effort
And my emotion?
Written hundreds of years ago, what a gift!
So beautiful still, so relevant still,
Salvation in my darkest hours…still…

These hands are so rusty now
Like metal in the rain, they are misshapen
And slow, eeking out a painful melody
Echoing a memory of perfection and speed
Ahhh, how it torments me!
But I can’t stop.
Broken I may be, but in no less way talented
The memories of ear and muscle return
I just work twice as hard now.

I no longer curse the gifts I do not own
I now cherish the talents I have been bestown.
But now, am I the pianist or the swooner?
Does it matter? It is no risk to be beguiled by the arts,
To be drawn aloft by the emoted voices of the keys.
Keys? Yes, keys
They unlock this rusty soul and alight the musty rooms
With passion so palpable, the heart bursts
With color and taste so potent
Even the brain cannot put it into words…

Give me the eyes to see
The total count of fingers to play
The full scope of memory and technique
To bring it all to life
Again.

Once again, once again,
Grant me the privilege to grace your keys
With my fingers…
Once again allow me to be in your presence;
Let us renew our partnership
Let us be one -together- again…
Sweep aside the guilt and time
And let us renew our passions-
Let us dance as we once did
Let our desire fold us, each into one another,
Let us lose ourselves to the beauty of possession,
Twirl to the heights of rabid obsession
Just you and I…

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Perserve Dignity

Because you feel slighted,
Your whole world is blighted;
Scorched earth is your creed.

As the flames burn brighter,
Your own inner fighter
Pummels ghosts of rage.

Your glasses distorted;
All words are reported
As attacks on you.

Suggestions are rebels,
Ideas… an uprise;
Fear bolts the old doors.

To flush out the evil,
Fabricate. Medieval
Torture finds the truth.

You need persecution,
-A fake execution-
To achieve some peace?

So fragile, so threatened,
Yet deeply unvetted
Insecurities…

Vast, vengeful library
Is this necessary?
Obliterate foes.

Wash your world, cleanse the view,
Victim? Not likely you;
Be a damn adult.

Perspective is a tale,
Of alliances that fail;
Allies seem villains.

When the bridges all burn
I am not your concern;
Burn it all to hell.

Take high roads, less crowded,
Dodge drama unshrouded;
Treasure dignity.

You, your own enemy;
Lies and bad memory
Fulfill your own doom.

Kite Dreams

He always wanted to fly a kite.

Darius imagined that either he would fly his kite, or let the string twine round his throat. Perhaps it was a physical euphemism for a subconscious connection to his plight.

Fly or die.

The beach stretches for miles to the right. The wild woods to the left. Breezes from the ocean swiftly float mist from the churning waves. The trees whisper their acquiescence in a lullaby of sorrow.

Darius rolls into the sand, combing through his fingers the granules of gold and silence. Flick back the sands of twenty years, and he was just a boy sprinting through the waves. Now, he is a man. A young man, struggling to find the meaning of life. The thread of destiny. What is there, in this life, for him?

Purpose.

Jonas strokes Darius’ cheek, a brush of sweet everlasting pain. A light kiss, the pressure of skin on skin.

Wrap it up and give it away. All the worry, all the concern. The decisions that every second demand…

***

Stumbling through the city lights, the stench of rot and filth permeates the air as Darius slides past the metal grates. Wrapped in fear and shame, the shivers of delicious pain floats above the struggles and display. His breath sucks in the poison and thinks it paradise.

He knows better now. But too late.

Jonas’ arms wrap around Darius’ shoulders. An embrace nearly claustrophobic now… He can’t seem to escape -but then, does he even want to? Smart moves need to be made, can he manage to place the proper bets?

Weeping, Darius slides to his knees, clasping Jonas’ knees in a grip so desperate, the denim fabric crinkles in the way only ironing can resolve. Shuddering sobs vibrate through his spine bowing in supplication -or perhaps…

Surrender.

Jonas stands silently, and somehow, that silence is worse than rejection. Worse than extracting organs from his ribcage and cracking his remaining bones despite turning to dust by the rejection. Filling the void never seemed so difficult as in those moments when Darius had felt needed, wanted, desired, determined-

Beloved…

Those days are gone, long gone. And now he has become the ‘other woman’.

Oh, how he will flay himself later. How he will self-flagellate.

Hold, then release.

***

Jonas strides away, the echo of his words ringing in Darius’ ears like the tremors of an approaching earthquake. Increasing aptitude, inherent longitude. And the sweet scent of decay and ozone taints the air.

Lightning has just killed his dreams.

Darius stands in the window. The wind and the storm blow detritus and trash up and down the streets. The remnants of his relationship blow across his mind.

The final resolution and last fantasy dances in the drifting heaps as they form, dissolve, and recongregate.

Just the cold glass, a rain-struck view, and his blatant anguish remain.

 

 

Hasn’t happened yet

He walks through the door,
He brought the sketch;
Crinkled paper in sweaty palms.
The bell jingles as he enters,
The buzz like a soft whine;
He stares in your eyes-
“Make it good,” he says,
Make it bleed, he thinks.

You shrug, he nods,
He doesn’t even know where to put it;
How could he pack in 12 years of pain
Into one simple ink blot?

He can explain it all,
The elements and what they stand for:
The flames, the ice picks, the daggers,
The blood, the pitchfork,
The black heart, the devil wings,
A final halo…

Salt slick skin on his upper lip,
He didn’t know what to expect
Pain in spades and hinted regrets;
Adding art, subtracting perfection;
He’s a fuck up anyway, gotta own that shit
He is who he is.

And color cancels pigmentation
The final asphyxiation
Turns purple into blue,
And white into black.
Tell him, seraphim,
What light do you have to shine
On this dark, foreboding day?
Useless sour kisses and lemon juice tears.

Blinking his eyes open to a new day,
Ignoring the crumpled paper
Clenched in his fist like an unfinished prayer;
Does it monument his past
Or his future? He stares in the mirror
Of false accusation, or is it a condemnation?
But, then again, it’s all the same
Yesterday is today tomorrow…

Coffee #27 – Tend Your Lawn

Life and Lawns

Life stretches out like a property -a lawn- caged by time. The lawn ornaments are chosen with care, maintenance outlined on a regular schedule.

People come for barbecues, luncheons, dinner parties, afternoon drinks, siestas, playtime, playdates, morning coffee, and stargazing. Garbage gets tossed on the lawn, cans in the hedges, tissue among the flowers and plastic bags in the trees. The grass grows tall, the litter piles up, and weeds take over.

You’re responsible for your lawn. You are responsible for your life. Clean it, or don’t.

Continue reading Coffee #27 – Tend Your Lawn