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Nothing like the last minute before you start
the show
when the air is rare,
and the faces there clearly
pining for that first note
Nothing like the last time
When you gave it your all
sweat pouring down, smoke in the air,
and you're commanding the entire hall.

The music in the air tonight
Will flow forth from
   my ocean   soul.
The people dancing, singing, laughing,
Some studiously ignoring,
(who happen to find my music boring)
Will, once again,
   make me whole.

         The vibes we give and the vibes we get,
and the vibes we have to just forget,
  All of it is glorious,
though glory comes
at a heavy cost.
Nothing ventured, nothing
gained or lost.
I've no regrets about
the rewards I've tossed.

   Nothing like that first blue note,
When the gathered folks hear
The songs I wrote.
Some with face like stone,
And some with
Their minds blown,
Everybody gathered here is beautiful,
in a cosmic light of their own.
And the music shall be known.
The messenger birds have already flown,
and the music shall be known,
and The music shall be.

                                      And is.
                              Now, and Then....

   I gotta remind myself to learn the club owner's name,
So he will have us back
                                       again.
A love poem about music and life, with a little comedic tag at the end.
Here, I do not need to coax the sound—
No more tremulous plucks, bated breath,
Muting my voice as it slips from my throat
Here,
It falls as a gift, freely given
Resonant as thunder in the mountains
Bold and beautiful.
How brightly I burn
When I do not have to ask
To be heard.
I sat beside the Thames on a Sunday,
The fling of my feet was a childish reflection,
The rotting wood pier a mirror of a stage,
But this time, the balcony held only Chevys
Exchanging pigments as they passed me by.

My sole spectator is a murky impression,
A visage of a woman trapped in the current
With her two feet tethered to mine at the ankles.

She doesn’t know that this is a funeral,
That I read the eulogy out loud in my head,
The cityscape whistled forgotten hymns,
And the sirens wailed like the echo of church bells
Reaping the moments that bloom and decay.

I laid to rest my guitar on the river bank,
Sand and silt filled the scars on its body
And suppressed the last odes that could pass through its strings.
miki Jul 28
when i write
i always find myself wishing that i wrote like Lana del Rey,
making even the simple things seem extraordinarily grand, to be able to glamorize what is sometimes a painfully normal life
i want to touch someone's skin
and write about it in a way that makes someone feel as though they're touching velvet
i want the kiss we shared
to linger on someone's lips like the taste of their favorite chapstick
i want to write about love
so that in turn someone will lust for what i already have
i want to write about my years of pain and isolation in a way that makes someone want to rip their own heart out and offer it up to me on a platter made of shimmering, sterling silver
which, of course
i'd have to refuse
because what would a writer be if surrounded by love and admiration they knew was real, that they didn't doubt for even a second
although, the sensuality of the circumstance might be tempting
an artist without eternal, incessant suffering
is merely a wolf in sheep's clothing
or a fool who thinks he's a king
they simply aren't built to last

i want to write about my mid-night thoughts and for someone to think: Lana would be proud
miki Jul 28
today i walked west
but only for a couple of minutes before i reached the old church that i've lived next door to practically my entire life
it's from the '60s, and as soon as you walk in a sign is still hung in the entry that reads
"Colored Church" with a cross underneath
i always loved it here
it's small
cozy
with a ringing sense of familiarity
much reminiscent of the people who gather here every Sunday
really,
it's been my quiet place for a while
somedays i come just to bask in the uninterrupted silence that it offers
but most, i sit at the old, nearly crumbling piano that's slightly out of tune
at the very front
and i'll just play for hours
simply to get lost in the echos of the pitch that's just barely off, but that's not unlistenable
it's become somewhat of a sanctuary to me
and i'm probably crazy to seek solace in a place whose very nature, more times than not, tends to frighten me
but maybe everything that i fear
is what ultimately will bring me the most joy

at least that's what i will let myself believe
Khoi Jul 27
Wildcard confidence
like hickory dicked the dock
the weathercock rocks
like Woodstock only clocked wins
slots in the tik-tok machine
Born from silence
a primordial motif
in my chest,
dragged heartbeats
evolving
into slow burning noise.
I’d like to give you
This sound wave
dragging my heart
without pause,
ever growing
unless contained in your hands
Henrie Diosa Jul 22
he doesn’t play the piano
the piano plays itself
through the dextral treble
and the sinister bass clef

he doesn’t lift a finger
the ivories press back
the ebonies go up and down
without a single clack

he barely presses downwards
his fingertips suffice
the music plays the piano
he’s merely its device
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