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belief, and where it came from, and if all the bright shining wishings of my carnival-sugared head throughout my life were betrayed by my sheer want for better, my desire for the unexpected to knock me silly with luck borne out of my willing, or if my scars shown with the knotted shapes of disappointment. i had to wonder where we all keep finding the will. where we store all the heart chips to bet like the universe's casino broker still might have a wink in our names as though he owed our father a favor from back in the gold rush days. somehow i keep singing, because it's all i know how to do.

      imbroglio 5-22-16

      words are an instrument

      that instrument and i are in a relationship

      and that relationship is an imbroglio

      it is unforgettable the way

      i have heard three dangling words

      escape from the panting breaths

      next to my ear as though they meant

      all the heavens and stars combined

      in their intent and gravity

      and much later when nothing

      except silence replaced them

      i am tempted by mistrust and anger

      to give them scarlet lettering

      banish their welcome from my life

      but were i to fall deeply into regard

      with the presence of a cello,

      and it sang the clockwork of my heart

      if a person kicked and mangled that cello

      and it did not last into forever,

      i would not hate that cello

      but would be grateful for everything

      it enabled rightly in its fair time

      sometimes someone makes something

      like a stradavarius or willy's trigger

      and by some stroke of grace, it lasts

      through hundreds of generations

      of doves of freedom to redeem

      and those instruments are

      the pet-names that last a long marriage

      or a cherished childhood expression

      someone whispers to a smile on a deathbed

      or a monologue uttered inside the globe

      theatre that recounts the same heartstirrings

      today as it did back when foodforaging

      took hours and a maidenface was salvation

      the instrument i employ

      to channel to another these vibrations

      that comprise my inner sanctum

      is verily lovable, because if we did not

      play out these songs then we would

      sit in silence and not know any

      of the joy and sorrow, the pain and pleasure

      that each other held in womb real as rocks

      but sometimes i am forced to put

      the thing quietly back in its case

      and under the bed, because it is time

      finally, for quiet.

      words are an instrument

      that instrument and i are in a relationship

      and that relationship is an imbroglio

      reeling 3-30-16

      i remember each of us

      self-aware and bright

      locking on to the notion

      that an us was a supernova,

      and spinning out reels and line

      of the best usses we knew

      how to show in real and time

      now as i lay down quiet

      in the very same room's palette

      that shone so stellar a together

      entrenched and enchanted

      to this town of tiny steps

      i think about how i can

      still see your shine

      from here

      and i'm light years away

      what a hell of a fishing day

      recitals 6-12-16

      for so long,

      we have been trying

      to put on these little recitals

      where the purest wee melody

      has a quiet little space

      for itself and everyone

      might gather together

      to acknowledge it drowning

      out the big world

      it's strange and peculiar

      how there's always

      a noisey fusser who

      cannot forgo the attention

      and a clicking mass of summary

      who always get it all wrong

      love is so quiet

      when ego and misunderstanding

      are so loud

      across all the hues 10-5-16

      i love how i can remember you

      across all the hues

      the yellow of your love

      serenading with sunswept glory,

      the blues of your chosen

      beliefs stormy yet redemptive

      to the brilliant reds of your flush

      excitements welling up

      anticipatorally to skinshared quiets

      but if i ever had to see

      only your outlined figure

      in the darkness sinewy

      in the way that happens

      in the basement tapes

      of the mind made from

      magnetized impressions

      of stardust left behind,

      you would mardi gras my

      stilled streets with backbeats

      and blessing you'd be any and all

      light with which my spired pup-tent

      would stargaze guessing

      to later get to 6-23-15

      sometimes it takes disaster to get to where we're blessed

      sometimes it takes pain to bring us to where we feel good

      sometimes we have to feel angry with someone

      to the point where we don't even want to look

      to later get to stand before them

      and

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