My six string hums like violence
My bullets words and passion plays
My six string hums like a wasted life
In anger and in rage
My six string blazes in hate and love
I set my own world alight
My six string beats the drum of my heart
Despair and in delight
My six string bows to no-one
In an endless shattered hope
My six string brings a broken end
Swing on the edge of the rope
My six string shrieks in anger
In Marshall stacked array
My six string falls in silence
Like you never went away
My six string screams in silence
While killing every sound
My six string pleads defiance
To the bitter truth we found
My six string writes the songs for me
And remembrance does that too
My six string wishes you could see
What I would do for you
My six string breaks and so do I
No artifact in my soul
This is the sound of tearing eyes
For one for you for all


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


I have notebooks of half-finished poems
and stories and sketches
sitting vacant on the furniture and table
staring accusingly with black ink eyes
at my lack of ability to end what I started
and midst the scribbled lines and stuttered words
Your name – written as if in schoolboy crush
and pages with wet salt stains ruining
the look of the pages
I have half-finished songs, littering my guitars with
trash and thrash and undone chords
I found a piano, and I would sleep on the couch
just to give it room
and it’s a thing of beauty
and I would play Rachmaninov and Chopin and Debussy
and freestyle jazz for hours on end
but that baby grand is out of reach
even as my fingers ache to caress its keys
it’s a loving touch – that running of fingers over
glorious sound
but I cannot afford or move
such an instrument of beauty
any more than I could
afford or move the beauty of you