The kid could throw, he really could throw

Scouts were watching back in high school

Arm like a rocket and vision like an owl

Smart too, had all the tools

He could pick apart a defense

He just knew what he could do

But he could throw, the kid could throw

He wasn't coached, the kid just knew

He was fourteen when first spotted

Junior ball in  Eastern Michigan

Throwing footballs, Setting records,

Just to break them all again

His mind was agile like his feet

He just knew how plays should go

He was gonna knock them dead in college

He was a sure thing for the show

He made the coaches look amazing

They never, ever  called a play

He'd run the team alone while playing

He knew just what he had  to say

Three perfect years in highschool

Undefeated every year

State champions...why naturally

The kid just had no fear

He was a leader with that football

He was a man amongst the boys

He sure could pick apart a defense

He broke 'em up like little toys

In third year scouts were knocking

Every college from the East

Full rides without a question

The schools all wanted this young beast

He settled on a team with promise

He knew he could help them win it all

The scouts and coaches stood in awe as

The **** kid could throw that ball

He kept his marks up to the level

That he needed to stay around

He wrote up plays instead of homework

Some in the air, some on the ground

The kid could throw the ****** football

The NFL already knew

He'd already broken most school records

The scouts just knew what he could do

It took two years to make a bowl game

On TV beneath the lights

The country knew of the boy wonder

And they would see it Sunday night

The one thing without question

Was the rocket they called his arm

The coaches built a line around him

They would keep him safe from harm

In third year he decided

He was turning pro that year

The pro scouts all knew of him

The price to get him would be dear

Deals were made through out the summer

Teams were phoning every day

The school was upset he was leaving

The league knew he was set to play

Two first round picks and a reciever

Went to Detroit for his rights

The Lions had the chance to grab him

But the Texans had him in their sights

The Texans proudly took him

He was gonna lead them all the way

The way that this kid threw a football

In Texas they sang "Happy Day"

Our father who are't in heaven

Hallowed be thy name

We lay this boy to rest before us

Before he even played a game

A celebration in a men's club

The boy had come so ****** far

When shots were fired in the crowd there

Two gunmen drove by in a car

He had the world in his possession

Man the kid could throw, really throw

But, fate had chose a different story

How good he was we'll never know

a false premise was the start of everything that went wrong in the end, or in correct thinking, it never actually went wrong, as it was actually wrong all along. lets just say it was wrong from the beginning.

a void was blinded from our eyes, and the only way we kept from seeing it was seeing each other, balancing the unruly truth from flipping us inside out.

your laugh sounded as smooth as silver as it played back in my mind like on old, crackling vinyl left on a dusty shelf. honey soaked skin made everything seem just natural to me, and as simple as it might sound, this attraction that at first seemed so wonderful is now unbecoming.

I just wish it was more efficacious to my thoughts.

(j.a.r.)

The digital world
makes us lazy.

Music on your phone,
your tablet, your laptop:
instantly and casually
accessible at a whim.

But placing a record
on a turntable
is making love.

It is tactile
and personal.

Your hands must
be steady and
proceed mindfully.

It takes time
and intention.

You must handle it
gently, with care
and pay attention
to the process.

When you do,
you reach its sweet
analog ******.

Effort worthy
of Euterpe, Muse
of music.

She will keep you
coming back for more.

I do.

    ~mce

The Vault stands resolute
Against acidic Time.
It must have much to say.
There is much it must have seen.

It's steady, stony gaze
Is all that now remains
To stand guard over nothing;
Duty-bound to stay.

What resides within?
It is aching to become known.
What resides within?

We rush the beckoning gate,
We push and pry and pull.
Today is a first for the Vault:
For the first time it loses a fight.

The darkness confronts us,
Accusing and severe.
Apprehension crawls up our spines:
What has been hidden here?

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

We set foot inside,
Our steps unnervingly loud.
The cold sun nips our heels.
The darkness caresses our brow.

What's that ahead?
I believe it is light.
The faintest of glimmers:
Thin golden thread.

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

With the greatest of caution
We open this new door.
Beyond is a strange old creature,
Back to the wall, sitting on the floor.

His flesh is pale and creased,
But his eyes are anything but idle.
"What is this place?", we ask.
His answer comes with a smile:

"This is Man's Vault.
It is a reservoir of what we were
Long before the missiles or the disease
Or by both we all were burned".

"Who are you?"

"I am the Curator, the Chronicler.
This place is of my own work.
I've spent day and night here,
Building it with record, picture and book."

"What may we do with it?"

"That is for you alone to decide.
The collection must pass to new hands.
My purpose here has been served.
In this present realm I will not much longer bide."

On concluding his final, heavy quatrain,
He breathed his long life out.
And the liveliness from out his eyes did drain

For several minutes, we stood in silence.
As a weight pulled down on our hearts.
A race had died before our eyes,
And left to us its inheritance.

there were songs
that forgot the only songs
that would be remembered

there were sounds
that forgot the only sounds
that would be remembered

there were photographs
that forgot the only photographs
that would be remembered

and there were greetings
that forgot the only greetings
that would be remembered

out of fuel
out in space
the memory of
the human race

particles, surging in bubbles
in a great barrier
between the space we know
and what we know only to call space
The faint whispers of humanity
cannot be heard from here
not even the light
of the only star we know
the sun we love
can be seen

the voyager continues on its collision course
with mystery and unknown
and breaks through the barrier
because it cannot divert
and enters deep space

the crickets sometimes sound
like your broken record of a voice
on repeat.
scolding me for making something
out of nothing,
and still neglecting everything.

i no longer dream.

there are intervals of lost
consciousness and sometimes
i am running through the
forest trying to call for you.

it has been three years.
i stopped counting the days.
when you shook me till the poems
fell from my eyes.

i no longer cry.