I wish sometimes I was a man of music.
I see the right side of a tune sometimes and my body seems to feel rythm. My hands and fingers slide over imaginary guitar strings and invisible ivory keys.

My ears vacuum up the sounds of beautiful music, from instruments to midnight breezes.
From simple words to metaphors and phrases.

It seems sometimes my inspiration comes from places that ears perceive as open spaces.
My heart beats to stake it's claim, to find its rythm in a vast world of sounds. A world intricately detailed and expressive. That not only whispers but shouts, that bursts out of the spheres and penetrates the cosmos with sound.

A world as grand and explosive as this, that overflows and spills onto us. Into us, even.

A world like this and my heart beats. To find a heart beating like it's own.
They seem to sound the same, but ears that know the difference can always hear it. whether loud or subtle.

I wish sometimes I was a man of music. Because poems can't seem to write the way my heart beats...
but it does help one to realize the difference, between "beats for" and "beats with."

My heart used to believe it was beating to find some tempo smooth as itself.
But it was beating in tune with someone else's tempo. it was beating with someone who hadn't been heard yet.

I wished I was a man of music, but to be honest, I feel poetry is the only way to properly say that sounds can become trapped. Like an image can be captured, sound is trapped in the wind, and whispered on to the world.

If my heart beats, it is flown on the wind.

If your heart beats, it is flown to the moon and back.

I heard your heart beating some long time ago. When we could hear those things. So my heart started beating in tune.
To find your heart, and let it fly me to the moon.

If I was a man of music, I'd have made a poem to sing to the wind. And it would have drawn you towards me.
But I'm a man of poetry, and all I recall of finding you and trying, was imagining a sound I heard in a dream.

Singing in a spotlight to a single beating heart in an empty auditorium. She stood there strumming upon rays of light, and humming vibrations to the tempo of her heart beat. Mine couldn't help but keep the momentum, but feel the rythm and accept her composure.

Now I hear the same, every time your hands touch me, and your lips whistle melodies into my mind. Things you say get stuck on replay like songs or broken records.

Things we do become sewn into vinyl, as the needle undoes our threads and leaves us naked.
Leaves us whisping through the air, and when the record turns off. You're stuck to me, stuck in my head like strands of smoke from a candle, tangled and gliding into each other.

In other words,
I was never looking for just anybody.
In other words,
I was looking for someone to fly me away, to a place where we already existed together.
In other words,

Not a day goes by that you haven't flown me to the moon.

Righteous anger is justifiable.
When it is called a pillage by those who do not understand, or those being enacted upon, it's context seems savage. When in fact, this anger is in its complete right.

A reasonable length of time to be angry is as long as the injustice prevails.
Where are we, if not in a place where justice is considered the norm?

We are here.

Standing upon our own bones in a burial ground we built ourselves,
By unceasingly digging graves for all of our problems and hoping the earth would provide wealth to our homeless.
Sometimes burying a problem only feeds it.

Instead of hiding it, we bury it in a shallow grave.
We allow it's toxicity to seep into our gardens, into our watering holes.
And it poisons us, it feeds us with inhuman practices guarded by a Cerberus built of lies.
Lies so poor in foundation we wind up burying our dead right along shallow graves.

Graves having constantly more and more dirt thrown upon them, failing to understand that a deeper hole couldn't even fix what handfuls of dirt sprinkled atop shallow graves are believed to.

So,
Perhaps the time has come.
For the dead to rise, because it's the dead who suffer. Poisoned while resting in supposed peace.
Perhaps it's time the dead find their expired hour glasses and empty them.
Refill them with gunpowder and make due for lost time.

Maybe these overgrown infants deserve the lesson, the one they fail to realize.
That shallow graves are swept aside by heavy rains.
That the dead don't rise on command, and that they lie in stillness by their own accord.

The streets need to ride the rising tides and open the empty plots. To begin writing the eulogies and engraving the tombstones. To commemorate the last of a dying breed.

And bury them in the cemetery behind the Heroes of Failed Revolutions.
Bury them in the graveyard that lies in the back of
The Fletcher Memorial Home
For
Incurable
Tyrants and Kings.