Walked in like B flat
Slow music playing
Heels clicked like staccato
Dress cello imitating
Blue notes sunken
Drunken with the motion
Of the left right sway
Spin, dip, heads floating
River more than ocean
She never stands still
She don't shoot the breeze
Heart-breaker, shoot to ****
Then she transposed the thrill
B harmonic minor
Tango, stomp, clap
Somebody shot the dress designer.
Violence in the night
Gasoline on the floor
Swift step matchstick heels
She adores the
White
Light
Like coconut cream
Musicians bathe with the moon
Sleep with its beams
Play until the world
Seems to burst at the seams
Set fire to the rivers
Inhale the steam
Descend with the fifths
Never rest on a trill
Cut the drums, spotlight
Let her transpose the thrill

orange like beeeee
careful beeeeee
cautious beeeeeee
irrationally aware
of the world around you

red like tooooo
night toooooo
stop tooooooo
hesitant when the moment
calls for action

blue like weeeee
were weeeeee
aren't weeeeeee
are drowning
in oceanic air

Pray.
Fold your hands or raise them empty.
True worship is in the sand.
It's knowing your coasts.
Knowing where you stop and where the Mystery begins.
Setting invisible standards on scales
you will never step foot on yourself
and being completely ok with that.
Empty hands are easy to hold on with,
so he squeezes with all his might.
Tighter with each missed meal,
tighter still with each cold night.
He holds on to the stories of Sundays,
of Lion's dens and wooden boats.
So that in the darkness of poverty's grave,
He prays.
Staying true to that thing with feathers in his soul,
he finds laughter amid storms
and wrestles smiles through the pain.
He grows.
From some invisible seed planted some time ago.
Grandmama's kitchen was a regular glass-walled greenhouse
And there wasn't anybody around
that could look themselves in the mirror
should one day they take to throwing stones.
Pray,
Mama told him.
So he closed his eyes and spoke.
Truth to remove the cold,
bread of spirit to fill his hunger.
But when he opened his eyes he felt pain in his side,
so he prayed again.
Knees on the ground,
he expected the earth to sprout cheerio trees,
the clouds to rain blankets,
and Grandmama to come around the next corner.
Such was the mustard seed.
Often times he slept after prayer.
Not always of peace.
Sometimes he was afraid his eyes
would see the same world when he opened them.
So he held them shut and saw Grandmama in dreams.
Pray,
Mama told him,
for patience and peace.
His empty hands still raised,
Still empty,
he gazed into the rafters of the one place he felt safe.
Singing songs of Sundays
and praying like Friday nights.
He felt light wrap around him,
rainbows he thought,
because he liked the colors,
and he learned while he was hungry
to pray.

Sing.
Mama's voice chimes bells.
Daddy's words raise hell.
The spell of music speaks doors into the night.
She steps onto the moonlight highway.
The melodies frozen in her ears from before
thaw and play their instruments
bringing life to dream-singers.
It's no coincidence
she was born premature.
It seems everything in her life has come early,
so she set her clocks ahead
and listened to the bells chime,
something like mama's voice.
Her home is a choice,
but not hers.
Instead she stirs the *** of muses
mixing salve for all the bruises,
not to her skin, he's not that stupid,
but for her bleeding heart
and broken mind.
Sing.
Purse your lips and cover your ears.
Conjure a tune from down in your belly
and make **** sure you guard all the exits.
Close your eyes and let the medicine
of cello strings and cymbals
back up the voice of your bones.
Don't let the melody presume to take words.
Your mind is caught up, trapped by the pain.
Just let soul **** tumble and fall
and rise, and climb and stall
and leave it all behind.
Let mama's screams blend in with crescendos.
Let go of this world.
Dip your toes in the timbre of streams.
Hands over your ears, don't forget!
Don't forget your form.
Forget the violent storms.
And if you're spun,
spin into helices.
Your DNA twisting into treble clefs,
hug the transformation close.
Who knows? You may sprout wings.
Sing;
If only a half-hearted whisper.
Sing yourself to sleep tonight.
And hope mama's voice still chimes in the morning.

Dance!
She told him.
So he drug his feet across the newspaper
turning headlines into layers of ice,
gliding just over the surface of a world
to him forgotten.
Boom!
The bass dropped and his heart nearly popped out of his chest.
His ribs too visible beneath his South Pole
bowed, creaked and shuttered
but muttered something about,
something about feeling alive.
Clap!
A series of muscle convulsions.
Shutter glimpses of the unseen acts of lightning
looking for a cloud to call home.
This one bolts into the highest thunderhead
and waits to be told to go. Go.
Sshhhh!
The sound of rain blinks from his eyes.
He squeezes the fruits of life
and serves the sour mixture to those who look on
with amazement and terror,
soaked in his story of craze and misfortune.
Clap!
This corner raises walls to his perception.
This is the metaphysical explanation,
God can be found in his dance.
This is where his last meal came from
and he won't leave the next one to chance.
Boom!
B-boy breaks down the laws Newton discovered.
Spinning until the world learns to turn
so that the seasons bring rain
on the just and on the unjust,
not just those who can afford to ignore each other.
Clap!
The applause brings tears to his mother's swollen eyes.
Swollen with pride and shame
of the things she's been pushed to, and pulled from.
She's reaching above the waves,
he's dancing his way from hell.
Sshhhh!
The ghosts now dispersed at the first sound of silence.
Their consciences are begging
more than the boy's pride will let him.
But their shoulders were born cold,
and the boy skates for nickels.
Clap!
As if God Himself were impressed
by the display of acrobatics set in rhythm,
the storm system raged and umbrellas dotted the streets.
Camouflage for his tears, he thought,
he always has what he needs in its season.
Boom!
The soul-box pumps out the old clocks.
Time has folded itself, molded itself, so it's no shock.
Rhythm and blue depression mixed up with B Boy steppin',
It's harder to find a meal on cold pavement than you'd think.
Dance!
She told him.
And he sinks.