your soul is a chosen landscape
charmed by masqueraders
and revelers
dancing under the moonlight
in a minor key
with a certain sadness upon
their glimmering cheeks
stardust kissing those hands
that caress the side of your cheek
your mask, removed
bathed in some azure glow
eyes, bright and intensely
staring, beyond just yourself
but something deeper
and more meaningful than ever before.
to know you, without your mask
is like knowing why the moon
sits in the sky as she does
or why the birds fly
or how the water on the shore
pulls forward and backwards
bringing in and out creatures
and memories of past lovers.
there is something in us
buried, warm, alive
that speaks to me when I see you
it whispers to me in another language
that I cannot yet understand
impassioned voice
intently seeking my attention
so that I may look upon you
and fear nothing any longer.
a song, you are
the universe, inside of you.

Silent, unexpected ripples
As the first flakes softly alight on the lake,
A crisp inhale with eyes closed
Followed by a joyous vaporization of cloud.
When vision flutters back into focus,
A spectacle ever-more lovely than the last.
The muffled crunching around the trail,
near-muted chattering of chipmunks,
windy flurries whistling then growing placid,
the softened screech of a hawk
subdued now to an awed whisper -
Mounting and falling like a Debussy.
Clearer and more humbly triumphant
than cathedral bells.

This suite - this bright panorama
Shows me to the brink of an elation within
And brushes my crystalline spirit.
It sings and I overflow -
Light pours drop by rapturous drop
From each eye.

Like Debussy's arabesque we danced,
your feet too slow, and mine too fast,
in different times, yet
intertwined,
we cascaded like the notes
brushed by gentle fingers;

she stood outside the apartment
finger halfway up her nose
scratching with her free hand
a **** loosely encased
in patchy, ***** blue jeans
ratty sneakers with holes where
her toes and dignity poked through

usually a whiner, a brayer
a donkey among gently purring cats
calling down thunder and racket
like a motorcycle tearing circles through a lamp shop

today, of all days, she swayed

silently
in loose waltz time
to soft piano of a long-dead Frenchman
curling down from speakers
mounted in windows
across the street

her misshapen hips and flexing calf muscles
lifting her up in a rude en pointe
somehow made elegant
by a quiet ballad, a soothing moment
on a hot August morning
in Main Street
of the hinterlands.

2/12/2015

When your fingers move
within the betweens of keys,
white then black, scaling
and tumbling through and over
knuckles and joints and wrinkled
imprints does your chest flutter
arpeggios and dance along
with tender pale-pink ballet
slippers balancing, spinning
in a reflecting room of mirrors,
the echoes of a pentatonic scale
the pounding of parallel chords
nudging your toes exactly right,
do you forget your wives and daughter,
both Emma’s, when you let the genius-flow
and the grand piano waltz
with your soul,
do you fall in love with something
more I cant describe
in verse, delicate Debussy.

O Debussy,
I run home from the bar
to hear the sssssound
of those sssssyllables
inciting
the ripplesssss of
fingersssss that will
ssssshudder my
sssssheltered sssssoul.
Your soul
too beautiful to write
but a *******,
I must try...

BRUCE LIKES TO **** SO YOU SHOULD BUY HIS BOOK.
AUDIBLE, AN AMAZON COMPANY.
indecipherable terms and conditions

SHUT THE **** UP SPOTIFY.
I'M TRYING TO WRITE.

Ahh.
That's better.

O Debussy,
your accents strike
me like the moon,
Clair De Lune.
Shine your genius
upon me and
light my way
forward through
the next bus ride.
I will imagine the
silver grass pastures
that inspired you,
through the ***** window
that inspires me,
with buildings.
more buildings.
still more buildings.

Wow. These cheap headphones
really corrupt Reverie...
you must have sounded
awesome live,
at the piano,
by your side....

AT SQUARE SPACE WE BELIEVE IN THE CREATIVE ABILITY OF THE INDIVIDUAL...

Then SHUT THE **** UP
and let me write.

O Debussy,
your chords set
free souls  —
caged birds that **** less.
Well souls don't **** at all,
but that isn't the point.
But seriously you...

HELLO SPOTIFY USER. WE HOPE WE ARE ANNOYING THE **** OUT OF YOU AND THAT YOUR  DAY IS AWESOME. GO PREMIUM. :)

I give up. Debussy, you're great.
I ****.

She took my stash,
slapped my ***,
and grabbed my vinyls,
took them for another.

She ate my kimchi,
and ate my ****,
and ate my grub.

She reminded my of Morgan,
and sometimes she acted.