Monday, May 5, 2008


Behind closed eyes, his brain works
It works like a chess playing poet
What's next and what will impress?
His slippery tongue runs over each hole
and snakes across his own lips
The vibrato, the bends, the trills they
come from the bowels of his soul and
they inflict him painfully.

His hands cradle each breath
his fingers move over each piece
What's next?
How will I impress?
The trains, the wahs, the guns they
come from his lungs and he breathes
them like fire

His tongue searches for answers
and his lips make promises
The cupping, the tremors, the blows they
come from his heart and they
destroy him from start to finish
What's next?

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