My mic stand is held together with
bright pink bondage tape
and my guitar stares menacingly from the wall
threatening me with sullen strings and wishing
I could play it better
but it beckons and calls in tritones and delay
a snarl of fury and a heavenly choir
tangled up in unholy divinity
I play with wave forms, synthesizing sound
with precision and unexpected grace
keys weighty and glimmering in the morning sun
music is torn from me as much as words
ragged and breathless, dragged reluctantly into the light
If William Burroughs was here maybe he’d get it
or blind me with his lyric prose and leave me
stranded in the spotlight of the melody
stranded in the spotlit solitude
stranded in bare harmonics
stranded in unfathomable notation

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