he tries to play the Moonlight.
or — almost.
only the beginning.
only a trace.

the sonata
in uncertain hands —
like a whisper
afraid of itself.

but in that awkwardness —
the whole truth.

not precision,
but body.
not mastery,
but contact.

it’s not him playing,
but more like “I not-I.”
and the music
recognizes itself
in every imprecise touch.

maybe
this is how
a true sonata sounds:
in attempt,
in jest,
in fragile almost.

Tanya's tiny bone structure was great for hiding between sacks of flour at her uncle's waffle restaurant. One day, while her uncle was having a convulsion, Tanya trimmed her toe nails with a waffle-cutting knife. She looked fabulous! Tony, a local wino, noticed immediately and asked Tanya what her secret was. "Total abstinence from sexlessness," she answered while large portions of her ***** tingled, along with 1 ***** (the right one was paralyzed from a yacht-racing accident when she was 19).

Today I listened as a friend tried to play the Moonlight Sonata.
He played uncertainly — just a few chords, and those a little shaky.
But suddenly I heard it differently.

Not as an unskilled attempt, but as a miniature.
A ****** memory of the sonata.
Not precise, not finished —
but honest.

As if he wasn’t playing it —
but letting it sound through himself, through the “I not-I.”
And this fragile form, where each note is almost there,
turned out to be more real than perfect performance.

Every attempt was like a joke,
every chord a trace of a touch.

And maybe that’s how the Moonlight sounds,
when no one tries to play it,
but simply lets it be.

There is a kind of silence
that doesn’t wait.
It doesn’t reach for the note.
It doesn’t mourn its absence.
It simply is —
like the air between breath and exhale.

This book lives there.

In that pause,
 where listening becomes more than hearing.
In that moment,
 where the body catches something
 the mind missed.
In the attempt to hold a feeling still —
 and in the ache
 that proves it was there.

Words will be written here.
Not because they succeed,
but because they remember the sound
 of almost remembering.

This is not a theory of music.
Not a philosophy of art.
Not a map of feeling.

It’s just what remains
 when sound passes through you —
 and leaves a shape behind.

You ask what I want and I know you'd like to think its your hands on my skin
But love, i’m a priestess
living in a far away temple within
you could never go to this place..

and most of the time, I don’t crave a body..I just crave a face
I want a holy possession
when they say
my name

Honey this sn’t romance..it’s my rite, a call
to shatter the madness and the lies once and for all
I crave the dark light, the sacred tone..
To sway in the majestic
of my singing voice alone

It’s been caged in shadow, captive in broken dream
What I need is to burn on stage, where I’m meant to be
No lover can touch what I ignite
My war, my worship, my birthright
What I’m after... is my soul

You ask what I want and I know you'd like to think its red roses
But love, i'm a gardener
and I got my own bouquets
and you could never..ever...
see my place

and most of the time, I don't crave your ***
most of the time, I just want...

someone there
as I dance
to myself

Selfish woman I am
Sable on Blond...I'm in a fight
forever with my own hell
right and wrong

I need my stage
I need my song
You have taken a part of me for sure love,
but I'm not yours to hold
Time to fly away
if you didnt know
Im
a
bird on a wire
Island dove

one of whom would be
this married sexagenarian,
who recently acquired
his Senior Fare Card
courtesy Trump's big beautiful bill
dog days of summer
will experience big beautiful chill
videre licet courtesy
slated budget cuts
intimating a worse fate
than getting root canal,
whereby militant dentist
woulf blithely recount his days
as oil rig employee
when he/she uttered the phrase
let us drill baby drill
without anesthesia testing tolerance
of patient to withstand and weather
blistering pain threshold
proving laughable reputation
of ineradicable irascible self
to be indomitable macho man
proving the myth of superman
lives within yours truly
a lifelong ambition of mine to fulfill
despite Sisyphean bone crunching
true grit teeth gnashing laborious process
as flour doth get ground within gristmill,
which grievance best taken to Capitol Hill
where ice cream for Jack and Jill
but nobody hears me
the fool on the hill
trucking, peddling, and naysaying
flavor of the month seasoned with krill
(don't knock it till you try it)
farmed from famed lake,
where plenty of fish
and seek reachers
once frolicked within
said body of freshwater
subjected to eutrophication
after toxic brew got poisoned
declared a superfund site
pungent putrid pox drained
basin subsequently relegated as a landfill
forever an eyesore devoid of wildlife
prospects for resuscitation
of thriving habitat
back to former glory days
and haven for flora and fauna
non-existent or nil
similar to forestalling
or reversing prospect
leaving countless commuters
within southeastern Pennsylvania
(come beginning Aug. 24,
when more than 30 bus routes
will be eliminated citywide)
seriously impacting (upending)
the lives and livelihoods
of people who solely depend
on public transportation
to reach their destination,
whether that be school or work,
which frantic pandemonium
will find metropolitan citizens
of Philadelphia going berserk,
whereat commander in White House
sports (analogous to Cheshire Cat,
or the Grinch who stole Christmas) a smirk
happy as a clam economic doldrums will lurk.

Meanwhile some companies may go bust
dramatically spiking unemployment
currently experiencing
a 0.682% decrease in employment
from 2022 to 2023, dropping
from 286,000 to 284,000 employees,
but the looming shuttering
of a vital transportation hub
linkedin within the Delaware county may skyrocket
not only regarding those skilled technicians
and the industries that supply mechanical parts
but valuable individuals
linkedin to vehicular repair or career drivers,
plus industries supplying uniforms,
and office support staff who monitor safety.