I lull the salt
and the rain
with the company of
sour visitors
perpetual silence
stabbing me in
my palms
I strung it together
with thin white exhales
In the morning
I become tangled
apologetic veins
a rib cage and
a buoy, white endless
silence
tangled at the root.

You are a poet, a musician and everything

When you smile it’s sonnet 18

When you frown it’s dark ambient to me.

When you pause and bury your head in the book

I would caress your hair like zither

Sing an ode to your soul

Your pale long fingers, fragile and bossy

Manipulate strings and words and minds easily

Slap me, pop me and shape me please.

Life is
About getting buckets.
How would Kobe live if he couldn't?
That's a mystery mankind will never truly comprehend.
A bucketless Kobe is a fake Kobe.
The sound of that string music is unmatchable.

The Kareem sky hook.
The Curry j.
The Kobe fadeaway.
The PG windmill.
These are all different forms,
They all get buckets.

Cherish these buckets like no other.
One day you will be old and grey.
Like bill Russell.
You won't be able to get buckets anymore except for in your dreams.
When your career is over. You will miss it.
You can't get buckets forever.