Man Made of Muddle

Embodiment of purposeless, meandering retort

Misanthropic, microscopic, demanding kind of sort

Stoic in a fractured sense that does no good for none

Emboldened still on window sills before a darkened sun

Rhetoric of a clouded mind that bends to wade in gloom

Identified by none despite the drawings in his room

A wielder of the pen and pad and digital decree

Dance upon intoxicants or dance to breaking knees

Able to feel, enjoy and laugh at your behest

Quietly, behind his frames, contemplating death

A possessor of the factor sole, the haunt of his beneath

The acts of yore that left him dying, settled out of reach

But he has hope for languages composed of lucid vibes

A hand of time and space to place a bridge to the divine

And grasping firm his social set with value and resolve

He'll speak in tongues of sight and song and learn to get along.

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Bed of Many Signatures

A throne behind five thunders

Hanging, screaming domes of gold

Commanding stomps and wooden sticks

Demanding wits and hands to muffle

Flesh like men, so granted tones

Wood of trees all cylinder craft

The biting left to the singing right

Whispers felt from sole to chest

Deafened heart that's blinding quick

Building force behind his casings

Lips to utter and hands to scry

A rhythm skewed but not forgotten

The carrier kit, the sunset stack

The vehicle to the brazen truth

So frank and short in its departure

Enlightening in its pursuit.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I sure do love my drum set.

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The Sun Set (The Carrier Kit)

Things with strings, confounding

And yet I'll ask to borrow the cello

Pretend to play, pretend to learn how

Give it back after a week or so


I'll admire old reliable

With his six wires of endless possibilities

But I won't get the itch

And there will be nothing to cure


Then I turn around and see

Those big and bountiful things

So rosy and round, filled with the light

That always finds me feeling good.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A drum kit is like a beautiful woman.

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The Guitarist


The hall is dark yet rich with sound
A voice of wood and string is sung
In the corners lonely notes resound
Mere echos of the song begun
For her a mournful tune he plays
In each tone a lifetime seems to float
His guitar speaks all he cannot say
So much conveyed in a single note
His hands weave music in the air
But it is her they ever long to hold
Instead a fretted neck he bears
As a string plucked story slow, unfolds
You hear her laughter in a chord
Her smile in his ringing tones
She's played on a rosewood fingerboard
Though under all a sadness drones
For here he strums in the dark alone
Such a song he writes for none to hear
And she so far away from home
Will never know this song sung clear

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