torn

things are tearing at each other, as usual: a fuse lit there, a dreary walk under the moonlight, soft sounds to your ears; music doesn't burn but it does set on fire, in some calm way, sparks bouncing about; occasionally one flies out and stings and the water begins running, but other times it's the soft nothingness that suffocates the air dry of beauty. so you have to make an effort to paint the walls green and the floors flowery colors while you dance about with that silver in your hand, each breath a musical sigh, even the inhaling a rhythm that snaps together deaf colors around you; a spitting mess of walking about alone, crumpling seams – the ground doesn't shake when you play, but you feel the earthquake with each thunderous thought, spontaneity popping out of your fingers and grilled dry napkins left to clean up the mess; we are too much shaped by that tunneling sound of planes overhead and walls pushing in, but you hide in the corner with your book or instrument or pen and paper and express the hell out of that nightmare wound imploding everywhere inside and everywhere invisible too; "don't make thoughts your aim" as you scribble about knowing the paper will vanish just as each musical note vanishes with ...

your breath. my breath. it's all the same, recycled about in the waste of expression – to capture that taste again and feel it yank all the life out of you so you are dead but your work is alive; "to be great is to be misunderstood"; no more boundaries, no more soft light pilfering the darkness, a droplet of thoughts in an ocean; what does it take to boil it all and shoot it up to the sky to rain upon the billions who miss all the beauty here – fireworks