I cut off my ears
at a beautiful note

And fall in love when
it's a screeching sound

I gauge my eyes out
with the violin's bow

The audience claps
so I take a bow

Lately, I have been détaché-d
Colorful melody, no strings attached

Take the strings of the violin
Tie them around my neck

I grab the neck
of the violin, choke myself
and say

Violence is yet
another instrument
I can't play.

Woke up way to early this morning
went to sleep too **** late
but the universe was already awake, loose and free
eons before my eyes opened this day.  

The sun was up
and around walking in the garden
searching for weeds among the flowers and onions
he trod the mulch to fertilize creation -
he is at home there
in the dirt and clay
in the failures of the day.

So when I arrive in the garden room
and sit at my little computer
amidst the plants and shells and cats and angels
I feel as if I have come home
from the misty crazy regions of sleep
to find my deeper self
here in this tiny dot in the universe.  

Here I listen to Chopin and Indian flute
and music from beyond
awakened from somewhere
in the shadows and blood
circulating and populating my organs
playing the grand pianos , cellos
violins, flutes
and mellow mysterious oboes
within.

The sun is present
in the clattering molecules
of stone and bone
infiltrating
crashing
creeping
and propagating
making life and death
into a great and glorious symphony.

Before I woke this morning
the sun was wandering
the creases and crevasses of my brain
preparing me and making me whole
taking my timid self and making it bold
for the vagaries and variations
of this day
ready to climb
into this small moment
of time.

All of  the rowboats in the paintings
They keep trying to row away,
And the captains' worried faces
Stay contorted and staring at the waves.

They’ll keep hanging in their gold frames
For forever, forever and a day.
All of the rowboats in the oil paintings,
They keep trying to row away.

I Hear them whispering, French and German.
Dutch, Italian, and Latin.

When no one’s looking I touch a sculpture
Marble, cold and soft as satin.

But the most special are the most lonely
God, I pity the violins.

In glass coffins they keep coughing
They’ve forgotten how to sing.


First there’s lights out, then there’s lock up,
Masterpieces serving maximum sentences.

It’s their own fault for being timeless,
There’s a price to pay and a consequence.

All the galleries, the museums
Here’s your ticket, welcome to the tombs.

They are just public mausoleums,
The living dead fill every room