"harmonica" poems
worlds converge in a papercup
come, come you on the tambourine
me on the harmonica
let's make music without the adjectives
let's live on the jingle-jangle of coins
tara na! this pavement
is our carnegie; metaphors
sans adverbs -- no illusions, no fantasies.
you and me and this street --
dancing like gypsies on a prairie
later tonight, while the moon watches over
we'll upstage the stars
with **** adverbs & adjectives
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
The snow drifts were
quite high, piling up into the
northern sky, burying
towns and trees and the poor souls who
had fallen asleep on the grass
and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes
left little kisses on their eyelids.
Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass
or spring
or sun
or summer
or birds.
There was only winter and snow.
And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of desolation and
s a n c t u a r y.
The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence.
And somehow, the halls always remained.
The blue halls.
Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni. Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky.
A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside.
Some say it's the doorway to heaven.
Others say it's the gates of hell.
And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture.
Others like myself.
"If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds.
" The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so."
We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me.
The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake.
The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known.
"It's the harmonica of the gods!"
Perhaps one of them
dropped it.
Perhaps it was a flaw in design.
Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind.
Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests.
And you are so beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 9:45 PM UTC
On a clear sky night
The sound of harmonica dancing
By the angles of the Moon
Drum pounds widespread
Waves floating in an ecstatic pace
The quiet bay listened with radiant Shells
Star specks lit sky humming
The Earth murmuring deeply
Pines reverberating in back chorus
Kids giggling around trippin' in thick dark
Tripping over some minor rocks, happy to
Embrace the unexpected music, dogs wiggling
Heavenly carousel shining upon their faces
Theater dreaming of the joyfull now
This exuberant laughter unsyncopated
Steps rhythm fading on their paths
Instruments put down, sounds of
Crickets, bare naked, two plunges
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
The chao phraya river song
by: David Wayne Clare
Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella) Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella)
Down By the River, don't dive in, them sharks are real-damn-mean but, that's where you'll find me... along with buzzards, ******** and kumoi dope fiends...
Chorus
we love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
now...
oriental Asian Ladies, Thailand's **** Siam queens
I dig them slant-eyed ******
them sticky cat-faced chicks on Soi 13!
(Miami Hotel)
cause they love that ***** water ...
oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
(Harmonica Solo)
You'll find me trashed one morning (smashed!)
Iced-down in China Town; all crying alone...
One day I'll never leave here (Lord!) Unless an Esan Girl might claim me for her own...
'cause I love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
Refrain
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...
Buddha!
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...
Oh, Bangkok, Thailand... you're my home!
(Sharp jumps from river with snied smile... big splash sound...)
(c) in perpetuity, David John Clare Clairvoyant Music BMI
Thailand...
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
*A father's love...
whether throughout times of sorrow,
or times of glory, is all but shallow.*
A father's love is a thunderstorm,
rumbling through a once peaceful sleep,
finding my awakened soul as company.
On the back porch, we seek credence,
as we share stories, and simple silence.
A father's love is a music tune,
carried from good intentions,
deep in the lungs.
Becoming bellowing blues
from a harmonica.
A father's love is rolling mountains,
as endless as eyes can see,
resonating with nature's peace.
Where he finds sacred hollows,
and gains perspective on his woes.
A father's love is a blissful brew,
aromatic, donning a frothy cover,
incredibly complex underneath.
It is a multifaceted flavor,
sweet, bitter, delicate, of earth.
A father's love is in the now.
It is there when the water is muddy;
it is there when the mud has settled,
and the water is clear.
It has nothing but patience.
*A father's love...
whether throughout times of sorrow,
or times of glory, is all but shallow.*
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
***Put on your yamaka, it's time for Hanukkah
So much fun-akkah to celebrate Hanukkah,
Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights,
Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights.
But when you're the only kid in town without a Christmas tree, Heres a list of
people who are Jewish, just like you and me:
David Lee Roth lights the menorah,
So do James Caan, Kirk Douglas, and the late Dinah Shore-ah
Guess who eats together at the Carnegie Deli,
Bowzer from Sha-na-na, and Arthur Fonzerrelli.
Paul Newman's half Jewish; Goldie Hawn's half too,
Put them together--what a fine lookin’ Jew! [Esus]
You dont need Deck the Halls or Jingle Bell Rock
Cause you can spin a dreidel with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock--both Jewish!
[Esus]
Put on your yamaka, its time for Hanukkah,
The owner of the Seattle Super Sonic-ah celebrates Hanukkah.
O.J. Simpson-- not a Jew!
But guess who is...Hall of Famer—Rod Carew--(he converted!)
We got Ann Landers and her sister Dear Abby,
Harrison Ford's a quarter Jewish--not too shabby!
Some people think that Ebeneezer Scrooge is,
Well, hes not, but guess who is: All three stooges. [Esus]
So many Jews are in show biz--
Tom Cruise isn't, [tacit] but I heard his agent is. [Esus]
Tell your friend Veronica, its time to celebrate Hanukkah
I hope I get a harmonica, on this lovely, lovely Hanukkah.
So drink your gin-a-tonic-ah, and smoke your mara-juanic-ah,
If you really, really wanna-kah, Have a happy, happy, happy, happy
Hanukkah……. HAPPY HANUKKAH!***
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
an oval antique photograph
from the century just passed
six youthful brothers
must be sunday dressed
exuding life and promise
facing forward all in line
symmetry pervading
sister mary in their center
on the photos right
a startling recognition
an image seen before
colins great grandfather
raymond often ray
in features and a gaze
seemed as colin
would have stood
photo has a crease
fading but still clear
now with photos recent
privileged to compare
colin next to ray
both fully present
yet a gaze away
rays gaze anticipating
army time in paris
fortune seeking in the west
fortunes to be found
four generations branching
to colin and beyond
colins gaze capturing
a journey now beginning
does he see montana paris
or the stars
repeating patterns forward
reflect photographic truth
music completes the pattern
with colorings of sound
rays trumpet and harmonica
introducing a guitar
which colin has absorbed
thus in his confirmation
new dimensions
now foreseen
confirming four generations
reflecting many more
expanding light and love
carrying our gratitude
for the glimpse
an old photograph
favored us
to find
(poem written for my grandson's
confirmation....)
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Blue, and sitting.
The harmonica sounds
like my mother.
I need my guitar
to get me out of here.
The world is strange.
I'm afraid.
The harmonica sounds
like my mother
crying because she's telling
the truth,
that she's afraid.
That the world is strange.
That only my guitar
can get me out of here.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
The chao phraya river song
by david john clare
Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella) Down by the River (echo-ee, a Capella)
1 Down By the River, don't dive in, them sharks are real-damn-mean but, that's where you'll find me...
along with buzzards, ******** and kumoi dope fiends...
chorus 'cause we love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're our home !
2 now...Oriental Asian Ladies, Thailand's **** Siam queens
I dig them slant-eyed ****** Them
Sticky cat-faced chicks on Soi 13! 'cause they love that ***** water ...
oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're my home !
(Harmonica Solo)
3 You'll find me trashed one morning (smashed!)
Iced-down in China Town; all crying alone...
One day I'll never leave here (Lord!) Unless an Esan Girl might claim me for her own...
'cause I love that ***** water ... oh oh oh Bangkok, Thailand; you're our home !
Refrain
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River...
Buddha!
Chao Phraya River, Chao Phraya River... Chao Phrya River, Chao Phraya River...
Oh, Bangkok you're my home!
(Big smiling shark jumps from river with switchblade knife in between teeth...)
fin
(c) in perpetuity, David John Clare Clairvoyant Music BMI
Thailand...
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Harmonica and strums sail my shores
Tell my whole clan sonny, he ain't good
That I met a troller under a sycamore
He passed me all the love as he veiled
We walked around,camouflaged by leaves
Tell mummy he was a preacher's son
A soul that was open and hid it's stick
Unharmonised in accapellas I drowned
Swingers of melodic stormy strings
Tell sassy to keep her tassels tucked
To calm her tussles and noisy gongs
Shake on the octave of the beats
Whisked dreams of the lost yesterdays
Tell Jimmy to listen to her heart raise
Tie her down, bring her back home
Liberate and let her fly like a wild bird
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,
So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
She looked at me and said
I think you could be someone
Who I would want to cry at my funeral
Because you would have loved me forever
By then
Even in my nightmares
You have no clothes
And I wake cold-sweat
And my ***** is confused
It would be cliché for me to tell you about
The doves
Beating beneath my heart-heavy breastplate
Only most days I feel like a sad piñata
And I want you to beat the heaven out of me
I know what Satan saw
In his decent
And it was worth the trouble
It wasn’t you
(Conceited)
He didn’t see you
Just the passion
The things I want to do to you
Like a lynching
After being dragged for miles from a horse
By the throat
And called a suicide
Only because I didn’t try to stop them from taking me
I want to love you like I should have known better
I want to catch your breath like a harmonica
With my hand over your mouth
A bent note all heave
Slip between my fingers
Let’s be wrong together
Like a nun in a church
Playing I Want Your *** on me
As if I were a ****** pipe *****
Tuned to the key of hallelujah
With a distortion pedal set to laughter
She shook like a love letter
Dropped from a balcony
I didn’t offer my jacket
Just my arms
So much rusty bear traps
Their damp hinges closing is a lonely song
I want to leave here feeling like a shotgun shell
Thrown to the floor hot
And used for killing something
Like the time between now
And your next misfire
Even if we’re just friends by then
She says
I would want you to be there crying
I couldn’t imagine you
anywhere else
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
my life is beautiful, not realistic.
yesterday, i arrived on neptune
wearing big boots and dignity
the horizon was a nightmare of question marks
and gloomy witches;
i escaped from the religious enema and
pegged a choir boy on my way out.
i am no longer a pygmy goat on a foolish leash,
i take my paranoia seriously.
my journals guide me to a ruptured corpse,
never censored.
i have the ability to be given away on a whim,
but i am becoming a famous soldier, an intoxicating
ghost of dogma.
my dreams are beautiful, not realistic.
hallelujah, the hobos are wearing bathrobes,
the ****** pillheads are anointed with ****** and sewer cleaners.
i see a goblin grave advertised by
luscious lips and fishlike shoulders.
the texture of my dream is kaleidoscope and silver,
haunted by a fat sherriff who cuts the throat of the jukebox queen.
i have a personal god, and on her i bestow this passionate kiss,
i have a favorite enemy, with no goals and without ambition.
im sorry, i don't know any happy songs,
only the movement of her young sensitive thighs and
a nymph with an hourly rate.
i am a buffoon with a blugeoned harmonica and
weapons of sugar.
my life is beautiful, not realistic.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
I’ve got plenty of ghosts I promised her. I leave them wherever I go.
At the house on 711 Ellen St there is the ghost of a dog named Hessa and a dog named Mac. They don’t play together, but they pant heavy, waiting my return.
There is the ghost of a cat named Charles. He chases a raccoon out of a busted window that my mother fell through.
There is the ghost of my mother pacing the living room, contemplating suicide.
When ghosts die, they become useful fire, burning as long as necessary, and then blowing out forever.
There is the Ghost of Louie, helping me fix my car. There are the ghosts of our tall cans crushed to the curb. There is the ghost of their fullness. Little drops that are left sit in the rim of the mouth.
Every moment makes a ghost. Every time you move something from stillness, there is a ghost for it.
When I come to see you, I will leave behind the ghost of laughter, the ghost of my warmth growing colder. Miss it if you want to.
There is the ghost or your taste in my mouth. Certain foods bring it back to life. I let the Bud Light sit on my tongue. I almost tasted it. Something is missing.
There is the ghost of your smell. It tricks me into craning my neck, eyes searching for you. There is the ghost of your smile which haunts me when the ghost of your smell tricks me into thinking you’re there.
There is the ghost of my cool breath dying on your neck, then dying again. The fire it becomes extinguishes quickly.
Behind your couch there is the ghost of a cricket. He has stolen a harmonica and plays only the high notes. Tell his family that he misses them.
There are the ghosts of apples that I skinned when I learned to make pies in high-school. I have made many apple pie ghosts since then. I will bring one to you. It will be a slow ghost. The steam rising from the middle is its spirit returning home.
Home is your chest. Breathe the ghost of my pie, the ghost of my cologne, the ghost of my eyes wet with poetry I have just read.
There is the ghost of poetry as it mixes with my breath and exits my chest. Let it die and die again. Let it haunt your heart, your belly, the back of your neck like a gentle hand.
I make graveyards. I make ghosts. I leave them behind wherever I go. I miss some of them. There is the ghost of my irregular heartbeat, when I feel the ghosts that I miss pass by. I breath slowly trying to feel them, but too soon they are gone.
Ghosts don’t stay long. I can stay long. Make ghosts in the meantime.
When I come to see you, I will leave you with ghosts.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Take my saxophone
Take my piano
Take my guitar
Take my mandolin
Take my washboard
Take my harmonica
Take my sunglasses
Take my hairbrush
Take my Bible
Take my clothes
Take my trophies
Take my baton
Take my ballet shoes
Take my cane
Take my sword
Take my monkey
Take my collections
Take my cat
Take my house
Take my memories
Take my plans
My, that was a heavy load.
I feel so light.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
Like a discordant chord striking the piano deaf,
Or a saxophone that lost its swanky *** appeal,
When you breathe down the neck of my violin,
The horsehair refuses to bow,
When you huff out your limitations into my harmonica,
You disrupt my harmony,
Throwing me
offbeat.
[But I refuse to be beaten].
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Stretchy sticky tape can be used for plenty
like preventing loose lips from spilling secret information
make 'em taste adhesive next time they lick crackly mouths
serve as a reminder of the importance of person-person confidentiality.
Some just can't keep a good story in their head
which is why they shout
and beg for the forgiveness of their unpopular ways
I love all these outcasts
because I feel I should, as do many others
they want to feel like good people
holy
and sometimes you find
you do enjoy the company of the strange
and I find
that I thrive on absurdity and being a ******
because it's exhausting to try to be normal
so you just act a fool and laugh
because you love to read about politics and physics
and you still enjoy
being un-sober
though it isn't apparent to all because you aren't so obvious
(except now)
and you know roughly who you are
at least have some ideas as to who you aren't,
you aren't a princess or an athlete,
you're not valedictorian, not perfect
just a humble little ****** with birds for brains
flying out of your ears
a whole flock of 'em
chirping away eating worms
early in the morn'
just insane in the dark.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
what i really need to do
is get a dog and name him teddy roosevelt
and sing him john lennon songs
and teach him to stomach gin
what i really need to do
is learn how to play piano
and sing songs about cigarette smoke
and lie about having a twin
what i really need to do
is find someone who calls themselves petunia
and bend low and scoop them up
and teach her to stomach gin
what i really need to to do
is learn how to play guitar
and sing songs about her knuckles
and the delicate shine of her shins
what i really need to do
is shoot dice with old black men
and hang out in alleyways
and wallow in filth and bathe in sin
what i really need to do
is learn how to play the harmonica
and sell ******* to rich white girls
and not feel a **** thing about it
what i really need to do
is find someone who calls themselves best friend
and bend low and scoop them up
and teach him to stomach gin
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 12:29 AM UTC
His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.
Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.
It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.
Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Packed in
Van shifts
Tires spin
Band roams
Desert dome
Hippie echo
Violin outskirts
Nuisance collaborator
Car crash drunk
River rolls forward
Boat rolls on
Crocodile way
Locust love
Backwoods harmonica
Dead wasp windshield
Oil pipelines old Texas radio
Kentucky derby fashion show
Rock stars and movie actors
Young kids and rock gods
Music recorded on the road
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 9:04 AM UTC
I feel like a comic strip hobo
With no money for deposit
And still I step from slapstick to cement
and hope court jester is enough here
I have come out of the rain
and into your home
Drawn to you
Though there is no pie in your window
No ghostly fingers of your sweet smell
beckoning me in
You make me feel
Like a ghost in a graveyard
Praying for a new harmonica inhale
and exhale
So that this music can sound more like a dance for two
A panic waltz for feet trying to match your grace
And today
Darlin'
There is honey between my teeth
A sweet sound
Our love is backwards
Blacklisted
An elbow torqued and knuckle gutted dry heave halleluja
Arthur Miller would have written a satire about our love
I remember our early conversations
You said you didn't believe in god
I said that he was a fantastic literary device
You said though you didn't believe in god
that people themselves could be godly
I suddenly wondered what you would look like with a jerry curl
"Let's not call it godly," I said
"What then," you said
I don't know
I just know that
Your eyes are like second winds
like Breathcatch memories
of highway carjackings
where you were the one left on the side of the road
The warm summer pillow of your stomach
And the peel of my face away from it
Is sticky like candy
Your stomach is like candy in that way
So is my face
I can be sweet too
Your smile is speechless
like the speakers are speechless
And the music has stopped
and our bodies are still
save for your smile
That quivers like fire
And I am a comic strip hobo
With a bandana backpack
and not much to offer
But I am drawn to you
You make me feel like harmonica breath
You make my mouth feel like honey
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Somewhere near the turn of the century, the walk was hot enough to burn your feet.
Sometime after that I was born in Phoenix.
My sister and I threw paint over a cardboard box in the garage and called it a spaceship.
My grandfather was too tall to be an astronaut, but now plastic tubes in his lungs keep him tied to earth while he waits for sixty years of smoke to catch up to him.
When we were younger, he drove us to the beach on the Chesapeake where we’d look for shark teeth.
Before that, A German Shepherd ripped a hole in my cheek.
Sometimes I feel the rough little scar inside my mouth.
But more often I see round little scar on my hand
When I was nine, my father taught me how to climb rocks.
The trick is you don’t worry about the flesh left on the granite.
Then a lake broke my mother’s back after she jumped in from the same height as I did.
We decide to hike from Yosemite to Mt. Whitney, and I walk most of the trail ahead, by myself.
But at night we all play harmonica and yell because we are the only ears around.
On the stage, we yell because our ears are tired of being lonely.
Then we’d stumble drunk and put out cigarettes on each other’s hands.
And later I would pull my brother out of pool of his own *****
And later I would pull my brother out of pool of his own blood.
And later I would let a lover sink into her own mind.
Now my sister sees me through a screen, a brother is all foggy in Seattle, and my mother and father miss the way I’d play music all the time.
The trick is you don’t worry about the flesh you left behind.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:36 AM UTC
Floating like fans
How we're lovers undone,
Play neat,
Look long,
And clean.
Tablatures razed,
We read songs for none.
The empty
Is marked
And deemed
A Sounder's Facade,
A Shuffling Nod.
The sequence
Is set
And sown.
A vastness to reap
No illusion to weep.
I grin the substance of
All things unknown.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC