Jan 2014
...and the sound filled the room
An intoxicating fog that pulled straight down
On my rusty heartstrings
Vibrations overflowing, attracting, resisting
Until chakra aura colors lit the space
Between the speakers
And me
...it was distilled joy, revelation
Hands raised to the sky kind
...and he rode atop those sonic waves like
Jesus, walking on the water, hand held out
Inviting
He sang and his voice was light
And it glowed, illminating the space
Revealing the swirling vapors
He sang and he must have known me
Sweet God, he must have known me
Better than anyone I'd ever known
In seven words he wrote the book
With a wordless wail he read it to the world
He'd conjured hypnotic melodies
Chants and prayers
Soon enough my jaws would be sore
Knees *****
Voice hoarse but I would sing along forever
To become one with the unfathomable
Spirit
The Ghost who bestows
The Gift
...relating to the words
Falling in love with the singer and the song
Allowed, for 5 minutes,
To worship gods made by the hands of men
I stayed up all night
Reliving those moments
Bookended by ignored reality
Cherishing the song
Until everything about it
Became a part of me
Special, important, essential as anything else
...and I was hanging with some friends of mine
Wordlessly enjoying the silence
A blessing for us to share
But one does get bored
I spotted a pile of old magazines
Not so much stacked but thrown in a corner
Most of them were sports related
Cuz those naggas of mine were obsessed with the game
Towards the bottom I spyed with my leering eye
A couple of soft core quarterlys with juvenile titles
Buried somewhere between the two I found a music rag
Pulled it from the trash heap
Bob Dylan on the cover
Sign of the times
I settled in for an amusing if not educational read
Flipping through the snot slick pages I came to the
"Letters to the Editor" section
Halfway down the page, in the center column
Proudly displayed in loud "all caps" someone had written
"COLDPLAY *****!"
The abruptness of his less-than-charitable opinion was
Jarring
So I conjured up a mental image of the guy who had written it
And directed my own, even less charitable exhortation
Delivered mentally with a force that would frighten demons
"*******!"
I went home and played track 4
In infinite repeat mode
I loved it even more for the fact
That some ******* hated it so much
An intoxicating fog that pulled straight down
On my rusty heartstrings
Vibrations overflowing, attracting, resisting
Until chakra aura colors lit the space
Between the speakers
And me
...it was distilled joy, revelation
Hands raised to the sky kind
...and he rode atop those sonic waves like
Jesus, walking on the water, hand held out
Inviting
He sang and his voice was light
And it glowed, illminating the space
Revealing the swirling vapors
He sang and he must have known me
Sweet God, he must have known me
Better than anyone I'd ever known
In seven words he wrote the book
With a wordless wail he read it to the world
He'd conjured hypnotic melodies
Chants and prayers
Soon enough my jaws would be sore
Knees *****
Voice hoarse but I would sing along forever
To become one with the unfathomable
Spirit
The Ghost who bestows
The Gift
...relating to the words
Falling in love with the singer and the song
Allowed, for 5 minutes,
To worship gods made by the hands of men
I stayed up all night
Reliving those moments
Bookended by ignored reality
Cherishing the song
Until everything about it
Became a part of me
Special, important, essential as anything else
...and I was hanging with some friends of mine
Wordlessly enjoying the silence
A blessing for us to share
But one does get bored
I spotted a pile of old magazines
Not so much stacked but thrown in a corner
Most of them were sports related
Cuz those naggas of mine were obsessed with the game
Towards the bottom I spyed with my leering eye
A couple of soft core quarterlys with juvenile titles
Buried somewhere between the two I found a music rag
Pulled it from the trash heap
Bob Dylan on the cover
Sign of the times
I settled in for an amusing if not educational read
Flipping through the snot slick pages I came to the
"Letters to the Editor" section
Halfway down the page, in the center column
Proudly displayed in loud "all caps" someone had written
"COLDPLAY *****!"
The abruptness of his less-than-charitable opinion was
Jarring
So I conjured up a mental image of the guy who had written it
And directed my own, even less charitable exhortation
Delivered mentally with a force that would frighten demons
"*******!"
I went home and played track 4
In infinite repeat mode
I loved it even more for the fact
That some ******* hated it so much
