Muscle Poems

Here’s our Adventure. A modern fiddle.

 

At one time in the background, a rebellion kind of “atmospherics.”

Ready at the helm.

Flying with your feet on the ground.

The speed of a fast car.

You are not to be distracted by the length of a bubble’s existence.

 

 

You drive harder in secret. We slow down well together.

Our sensibilities are between us. This stroll at such a relaxing strum, we are swelling the wind. The moments of truth have been grooming this harmony.

 

They agree somewhat impatiently. Doing intricate things.

 

 

Wake up! Wake up!

We want to know to what. You imply the end is near like you might just let it happen.

 

 

You are grown men. You need to play like boys.

 

 

You’ve got her number.

And you’re still facing heartbreak.

Finality, futility.

Hoping to start over, anyway.

 

 

The bass line turns as if a heavenly path is opened up. It wants to tell you more….

The musician

Is a frustrated storyteller.

Melodic subtlety is a spent breath, it’s message expiring, its repetition never recaptured, as it is

born anew.  He must continue playing to complete the story.

His instrument wails like a prophet.

 

Beating back the violet flame bursts of his fingers. Back to the field of illusions that is this stage, from whence it came. Now calm, now staccato, now no way to tame.

 

 

An artist of that age gave an expression of the world’s shortcomings. A “fuck you “ disillusionment. Feist and energetic life strung from the contrast of the pure life inside of him. He could taunt the bullshitters and change the world.