I love art
It expresses a world beyond this one
Art can show me a life
A possibility
A desire
Anything
I can feel
I can hurt
I can express

My pencil dances on the page
A magic flowing from my pencil to the page
Finally free
People can finally understand
They can finally see
From my eyes
                                     Art

I watch them
captured by
their bodies the narrator
A beautiful story is now being told
A love
so deep
but so painful
a silent scream
                                   Art

That instrument
Speaks
This may have been Beethovens
But not anymore
This
Is now theirs
This
is beyond words
                                  Art

Theres always more behind the words
Stories
Secrets
Wishes
Confessions
Everything
A poem can tell the world what cant be said
                                  Art

Her wintered sky eyes,
are birds,
a frozen pond,
where fearless children,
challenge the fallen apple,

she is Beethovens forgotten dream,
Beethovens missplaced song,
saties replaced piano key,
Savios hitchiked vision of Toronto,
As she sleeps,
Gymnopedies,
silently creeps from her nostril,
Filling the vents,
with mortals beauty,
and immortalities last breath.

two summers ago,
I found myself under a cabbage leaf
curled beneath the sun.
circled in slumber,
like there was never an end to anything.
then, I grew wings
and left my warmth for speed
sacrificing my calm breeze for cold storms
and windy nights.

on my flight home,
I sit through red lights and
look for tear tracks on the
faces of strangers
kissing their cheeks with my eyes
and pretending I can see the salt.
because there is hope left in
loss, my friends.
sometimes, you just have to let
the best things fall.

(how do you think storks still fly?)

so, I spend rush hour
untying the cloth diapers from my ankles
and when the highway pulls
my hills away from me,
I send them flying out the window
like dead birds
knowing
I will never see the seeds
fertilized through their bones
praying God thinks this
is a gesture of my good will.

let us all pray that God notices
our empty hands when we give up
the deepest now for an uncertain future.

Personally, I am praying for a cardboard-box
collection of home movies documenting
the growth of all the people I left,
of all the places thrown behind me
like stale cigarette smoke,
the homes I have broken with
my ever moving feet, my restless
guilty wings.

I will project the shaky film
all over my internals until my
gut is soaked with light
and the last shocked thought
of my quickly fading mind
will be of the things I could have seen,
the memories I would have made
if I had not gone away so much.

If I had just stayed.

but the wind is a vicious thing,
especially the updrafts
especially the hot breath under wings
which gradually convinced me
that my home was a cold dead thing
that there was no life left in my town
that the only world worth seeing was
far far away.

I have burned the eyes
of bluegrass Beethovens dying
slowly on a stage just to prove
that I never needed a quiet place.
that I was above all the country songs
and overalls and camouflage,
but we all need to hide sometimes.
even from ourselves.

Drums beat the endless chords
Of something that looks like an agony,
A vague aftermath of a smoky carcass.
The crowd remained enthralled or detached.
In excitement, in boredom and in unison.
They seemed to know the routine of celebration,
Of enjoyment,
Of the rejoice.
But still not eat at it,
into themselves.
They seemed to even echo their claps and nods so parallel,
To the rhythm,
That they all became another maestro
The deaf Beethovens.

While the elephant,
danced.
               And sang.

In a pristine celebration only known to him.
Like the seducing dance of the King Cobra,
In the Jungles of a drenched Wayanad.
Green,
Yet so Aroused and red.
While nature became its charmer,

She,
the nature,
Juggled with the soul, vigour and energy of the King.

In one plate,
altogether,
The art,
The music,
And the rhythm became

The dirge of a new cemetery                  
                                                        of an old heaven.

writing poetry
is a lot
like playing the
piano.

it takes skill and
practice,
but the best of us
seem to be
gifted with it.

as if god decided
we were going to be
another Beethoven
or
another Bukowski

too many people never
realize this,
and continue to play the
piano or write their
poems
and always thinking
yes
yes this next piece
is going to be
the one
the one that makes me
famous

they write and play
and cast their eyes downward
each time they get
rejected by the producers
or by the publishers

always saying to
themselves
ok
it’s ok
they just don’t know
what they hell
they’re talking about
I’m great
I’m still great
I just need my break-
through
I just need my first
masterpiece

these amateurs are not
to be disregarded
or
looked down upon
though

for without them
we would never find
the Beethovens
and
the Bukowskis

it takes a million fools
making their
cacophonies to the
wind
for the miracle to happen
and the master
emerge

I have always told myself, if by chance one day I decided to say "**** it" and speed up up the slow process of death, the last sound I would long to hear would be the breathtaking notes of beethovens moonlight sonata.

In all my years of open ears, I still have never found so beautiful a mixture of musical notes.
The sad piano keys have always tore at my heart in ways I can never fully understand, but it never made me sad. In fact, it did the opposite. It made me feel so... alive.
I could feel my heart beating and my mind swirling at the emotion flowing from centuries ago. What beauty it had brought...
If i were to choose my own method of demise, then would it not make sense to choose the one piece of music that made me feel alive one last time.

it's there, i've seen it,
in the last days of january
and the first days of february,
in england:
the sunset between 4pm and 5pm
reveals the famous vanilla sky
adapted to film,
from the original spanish
open your eyes (abre los ojos).
which is why poetry needs
to become more prone to optics
than resonate in competition
with mozarts and beethovens
and orchestras,
it's but a single voice
with the whirlwinds of silence
for music... it requires a detachment
from musicology,
and enter the realm of optics,
inquiring paintings, translating
paintings into animate scenarios,
using these crude alphabetical
tools to conjure earthquakes
and tsunamis and nose diving
crows perched in mid-flight
to an abrupt microscopic honing
of that scrap of food at the end
of the tunnel.

The last time I heard "Beethovens 5 Secerets", I was in your arms. Writing amazing poetry. It came on tonight, ***** shuffle. My heart stopped & I danced & for the first time in weeks I didn't have to miss you, because your feet were next to mine...

some thoughts come to my consciousness completely
uninvited, like this one,
the history of Poland, whether the historian
Norman Davies likes it or not,
i just put on a bathrobe to cover the hoodie i'm
already donning, the cold can make a man: mad...
i mean forget literature, forget all that soft cushion
*******... perhaps you can stand the heat:
what? modern white women and their
anti-racist ****-buddy "rhetoric"...
   i guess someone missed the cultural revival
currently happening in Europe, for the people...
by the people... the resurrected herr mannelig myth...
TROLL... no... originally it wasn't some
dip-**** teenage boy going rampant on
the internet... it was a woman "clarity" of form...
an ugly woman... but i still stand strong in
demanding what my: p.b.u.h. grandfather recited
to me once... no woman is ugly,
she's just neglected... i stick to that rule...
but... but...if i'm scratching my head...
scratching my nose... stroking my beard because
i can't scratch my chin...
thinking about transgender women as...
fuckable... show me your hands...
please just show me your hands...
  so we're a knuckle short...
you'll pass...
  butch wannabe in his mother's cardigan...
to the Russians with you...
from World War II stories... those dogs will
**** anything than moves... dogs
******* dogs, ******* pigs...
women... imaginary women,
camels etc.,
            
     sure my vice is... i drink... but plenty
of sober people have...
horrid sober thinking "patterns"...
i drink because i don't relax when thinking...
it always has to be this effort to
scribble down something....
i used to relapse into the comfort of "cognitive
narration"... these days i'm finding myself
within the confines of making: postures...
when  football match is taking place...
my role? my role is to posture...
to look masculine...
to look authoritative...
to... make me fear me...
to.... you want a plum eye... sonny?
it's... to be honest... a ****** game to play...
but i enjoy it...

   but i drink... the cold makes me mad...
i need some whiskers some amber to keep me... sort of...
sort of... sane...
what was i about to "talk about"...
oh, right, constellations...
the transcripts...
this might take a day or two...
depending on how one: feelz...

"fun" some things, feelz, or other, can you even
begin to imagine... Africans...
singing gospel... having the exfoliating moment
in time... without... being exposed to the English tongue?!
would we ever escape the *******
violins... trombones... deaf Beethovens...
no use of drums...
wait... sorry... you're not deploying
the BASS guitar?!
could you ******* sing to your highest possible:
potential in... ******* SWAHILI!
d'uh d'uh dum'da'rah'd'um you probably couldn't...
you came up... with the antithesis of
classical music via jazz...
you came up with... the blues...
******... you came up with: the blues...

it's almost like the Marcus Garvey movement...
never, *******, happened...
you're still going on about
******* these anti--racist white chick-ah-doodle-does...
no, not "those": does... like sort of:
"dudes"! do-izzzz...

IMPORTING ******...
WALKING... ******...
good to know: dough down to the ratio of:
the dodo birds still walking, about,
admiring the liquorice...
a man must admire the liquorice...
the star of Anise...
or... hmm... voice, my, "concern":
how to punctuate to give off
a rhetorical ambivalence...
        
but come on... jazz... would it have come out
of Africa?! on a per se basis?
Bonya - Fatoumata Diawara -
ignorant Africa-Americans...
    thank god i don't belong to any of the western
European peoples...
i don't remember: perhaps i don't have
to... the Russians might have had an Empire...
but it's not like the Kazakhs are talking about it...
let's get on with it...

but these Africans in America...
have they ever talked to an actual African?
sorry... but yeah...
your tribal leaders sold you you...
you were tall, fit & readily made available to work...
you were a commodity...
worth much more than a north eastern European
Serf...
       last time i heard...
you picked cotton... it's not you were...
mining coal... now you're rapping and plasying
basketball... you invented jazz... you came up with
the blues... you created the antithesis of
classical music... white women are flocking
to your ***** with their anti-racist *******...

fair enough... only the rare specimen from your women
i find attractive... but come on...
Arab women have fat hands... come to think of it...
ha ha... "think": i'd rather **** a trans-woman
than... any woman: to begin with...
unless she's a *******...
black women can, will, do, walk the streets
at night, and no man will bother them...
you want the inverted ego-tripping when it comes
to cucks? modern *******...
all that... black men ******* white girls?
yeah... i... em... i don't want to touch black women..

black women, arab women...
they have... fat... peasant fingers...
huge hands... i have big hands...
but tell you what...
some of these trans-gender specimens...
oh... ooh... they'd be a treat in world war I trenches...
so... if... this is coming across as one of those...
Malcolm X attack: retractions...
i, i think it sort of is...

   i'm not their father, i'm not their brother...
but i do ******* know when i meet an African
and when i meet a displaced African...
it took me enough to befriend some macaque monkeys
to stop the Kenyans from shooting slingshot pebbles
at them... as i fed them tea bags and bags of sugar...

it's like: if there's an insult, "insult", pending...
black boys willingly ******* white girls, regarding all
that **** that's available...
insult... let's procreate to give us a 2nd Brazil...
post-racial south American hoopla!
o.k., black boys wanna **** white gorls...
but... what... if... i... don't... want... to... ****...
black... girls?!
  what then... you're going to...
   invest ****** pills in my would-be *******
to sort of self-medicate ****** myself
with having to **** someone i don't to... ****?!
sure... great compliment for the white girls
getting jazzed up...
but i'm pretty sure the black girls are suffering...

oddly enough: i'm for racial purity... so, that...
the blacks can survive... or... **** it...
let's all just mingle and become pseudo-Egyptian
copper-skinned
Indian sub-continent... type of brazen...
bozos... we can have that... pretend Arab...
pretend Spaniard...
           one side keeps pushing... another side will...
thankfully...
the Russians are always there...
never disqualify the Russian...
he's always handy... god forbid calling the Deutsche-mann...
n'ah... that Schwab of a mann is long gone...

it's like to reiterate... German was probing Poland:
give him up! we know he's in there!
Russia was like: give him up! we know he's in there!
the Swedes came! give up him, we know he's in there!
the ******* Ottomans' came!
give him up! we know he's among you!
i don't think the Mongols cared, but, they came,
regardless...
so Nietzsche came, so Marilyn Manson, came...
like i said... almost two centuries' worth of
character assassination...
a case of a stolen identity...

                in all fairness... no game, not fair...
tomorrow i'll... hardly reconsider...
it's all...                       "oops".