Not even Black
***** brownish grey
with wings that do not fly
only good to cover his eyes
discarded by rejection
he only comes out at night
on crinkly legs
walking by  the riverside
the trees nod for they do not care
in the park
pretty women meander at dusk
no one will see him
no one will bother
there will be someone always
to ring the bells

What destruction to my soul!

What life removed!

What right have I to sit here and feel nothing?
What chance?

The point of horrors past and future horrors dodged give no more comfort than does vindication.

I would be wrong to make it right.

What chance I’ll reach the end?

I am torrential.
I am still.
I am a haven, and a killing field.

What chance I’ll reach the end?

I am hot ash.
I’m far too cold.
I’m tarnished; I cannot be gold.

I could be a souvenir, but am a memory best lost.
A thorn in every side.
A coin once clutched, but best if tossed.
A condemned amusement ride.

What chance I’ll reach the end?

I’m shaken till I shatter.
I’m numb until I mend.
Shake and shatter.
Shake and shatter.
Shake and shatter; numb again.

What right have I to sit here and feel nothing?

What right?

What choice?

What chance?

I tinkered and cobbled a box together
to place my love feelings
safe from the wheelings and dealings
of loves thrillings and chillings.

Yet still and because
the thing that love does
I handed said box
without any locks
with trust
into the hands of a young lass.

The spine turns cold
when woe to behold
I sighted my love- feelings box
tossed among the rocks
bobbing in the sea
among the flotsam and jetsam
and trash.

The voice, the bell-yellow
voice of the sax plays on.
Under the mind like a layer
of canvas lie the brushes
and strokes, the arms and legs
of memory.  The arrival on the
skin of sound is the moment
of love.  The unfurling of
the pallette.

You say, listen, the wail of
breath on brass is mine.  No,
it is yours.  The voice, no
longer alone, even when
unaccompanied, falls from
the blues of evenings or the
reds of afternoons, approaches
with footprints in sand.  We
are castled in music, our
colors unfurled.

Our fingers on the keys.  We
see the archetype of design in
the sound of the sax, the
movement in the fabric of
stripes.  The sound’s colors
draw us to each other.
Listen.  The wail of breath
on brass is everywhere.
Listen.


101793

how strange, that all of these voids and lights and dust in my chest, will never be more than lights and voids and dust to you.

there is no gaping abyss or infection in the word, only the sound of my voice modulated by the shape of my mouth.

there is no lingering burst of emotion through my chest and into my being, only odd confessions that spill from my lips that sound like weight and a heavy pain.

there is no scattering of remnants of what used to remain, no rush of desperation to cling to shards of glass, only strange noises that depict an understanding you’ll never know.

how strange, that everything that makes up my being, every gaping wound and glowing scar, will never be more than words i find that you can’t quite discern.

Hush, it's raining.
Heaven's cleaning the earth
with its gentle brush,
anew.

fields of lavender
as far as the eye can see,
in rows of scented purple
growing insatiable idiosyncrasies,
our minds are a rich, deep soil
and the children of our thoughts
run free,

run free
and light,
run free
and careless,
like a river to the sea.

the heart is programmed
to be broken,
to let in the light,
and the earth in us is woken,
our heart will open,
it will open,

when we take in our first
breath of this heaven.

My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.

It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.

I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,

It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.

I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways