Music to my eyes

the piano starts, but by only one note,
repeating
repeating
repeati--and softly the cello accompanies in scales
then numbers

dash off strings and fill the room
a hundred fingers tapping and tapping
but by only ten

envoking emotion to order another scotch
and to lend your ears for awhile more

by god, where has everybody run off?
oh, they are all at the bar ordering gin and tonic

and the cello opens rifts as the piano turns notes into
volume
depth
precision
momentum
power

what happens when the world is music
and nobody knows it?

Darmok

Shaka when the walls fell. Timba with arms wide open. Darmok and Gilond at Tenagra!

Britanny (I can only presume the spelling, I apologize)

With my head down and hands holding themselves, I trudged along the various shades of grey that the street and sky had decided to exhibit today. I passed an ill-kept trashcan of a car with a not-so-special girl languidly curling smoke about her lips. She did it with such ease and satifaction--almost as if it was some game she played with the AC. I thought nothing of this percular spectacle and continued lumbering down the road. Something interrupted my fixation on the sidewalk; it was her.
"Hey! You want a ride? It's pouring."
"Sure, thanks, thanks a lot"
"I'm Britanny." She said with a smile. I noticed she had put out her cigarette to try to hide the fact. Her car smelled of it. I didn't mind.
"I'm Jonathan."
There was something I admired about this benevolent

*Incomplete*

Thank you, Wilde

We walked out the door. I was languidly twirling the key ring around my finger as we approached the 1990 something sedan. We were going to the opera that night. Oh, what a beautiful night it was; a flawless moonless night, dulling the ridiculous vibrance of the city. I was driving, she was applying makeup--what a scene that must have been. I looked at her and cracked a smile.
"What?"
I started chuckling, and as I was doing so, I almost ran an intersection!
"Je t'adore trop, la femme en bleu."
"You and your french; it's too romantic, cut it out."
We arrived at the opera 15 minutes shy of the curtain opening when she said this to me,
"Let's go."
"What?"
"Let's go somewhere else"
"But I already bought tickets"
She kissed me--manipulating succubus. I reliquished the tickets; she ripped them up.
"Ice cream then the park with the fountain; it's too wonderful a night to be indoors"
Having said that, she locked arms with me. As we were walking, she whispered sultry vices into my ear and I blushed with a wide-brimmed smile. We stopped in the middle of the promenade.
"This will last forever?" She dreamt.
I stopped with a horrid look upon my face.
"Don't say such things!" I trembled.
"Why?"
"It'll hear us!"
"Who? Don't be silly"
"The master of all guile; the sower of all doubt."
She donned the all-to-familiar mask of confusion. I continued,
"nous"
"What's that mean?" She said cynically.
"I can't tell you."

There's something objective about time

Lydia's Demise

"Why must you take leave, mon loup?"
"I wish I understood your inquiry, Lydia, for I would surely not depart."
"What do you require! Tell me your bafflement!"
"Oh, Je souhaite, trop but I fear we exist on two parallels; two fallacies of affection.
Bonsoir, Lydia, Je suis désolé"

A Classic; Immortal

One must always remember.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Ozymandius

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whos frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandius, king of kings:
Look on my words, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Colored Life

Lament of Kings

Hark exordium, amorous guardian
belay your pretensions; ostentatious myriads
of puissance and aptitude.
Your revery tyrannizes your foresight.

Posterity rapts upon your omniscient assumption, and
The lye of leisurely companions fade the vibrant purple of ascension
What now bides your rule?
Time, my king, time

Existential Reckonings

The results of toil, they say. I repost, "Whereas, fruitless labors result in beauty? You say lie for the sematics of ad infinitum." Hark back to the forgotten realm; ere time begot labors and whim; sans definition, but rather mere existential reckonings. I say, "respond but to whom I beackon, to mean realmless attitudes. To forget mundane liabilities; to be left without umbrage, is inspiration veiled in potential. I am, whom I wish to be, hence no realities, only the weaves of desire and personal serenity, ere nigh an inspiration exhaust, where another begots from the ashes. It is to emanate realities, but played in a field of impossibilities. There abound to a plane of residual perfection; skirting the countless vibrations, multiplying ergo asundering, henceforth synonymous. It is amusing upon how one can fantasize the existless; the blanche scape. I suppose the time spent amongst responsibilites conjures ghastly visages of what one expects to be, only to do in vain and destitution. At this, he is doomed to wander as such upon the prism, only to press and lament what could not be. I realize this, but I still dwell in the forlorn.

Giants Among Rock

Grey shield ascending
pristine locked forever
yearlings unhindered

Sea, oh my Sea

And I could stare for hours
at that rhythmic bastion,
forever capturing my gaze,
as if its reach was just to get at me

And I stand up, nodding in reverence,
gently dismissing my attention,
As I walk beneath castles of stone,
long defeated

And I often wonder:
What happened to the marvel of the tide?

Grace

The grace of humanity is often ill-recognized due to dark aspects of our nature. But, Have we forgotten the grace we have wrought upon this earth? Do we deny the great works of skill and beauty, forged? I hope not, for I see greater potential in humanity to commit acts of righteousness and benevolence, rather than be enveloped in the fires of evil.

/end random muse. How rhetorical is this comment...

Guitar

I was strumming my guitar earlier this morning, when I came to an interesting thought. What if music was not so predictable? Instead, one would strike one chord and produce the effect of another, unintentionally. I thought, "what would happen to music, if this were the case?" Of course, our inate perception of rhythm and somatic parameters would inevitably cloud any real beauty. It's this instance of wily percussions that really explain the nuances of control, man desire. We wish to control an event, to which leads another; another that is desired and expected. The whole human conditions relies on the "action results in consequence" complex. Now, why are we so afraid of the "grab bag" will of nature? It's apparently easy to understand in the sense that we need some control over our own survival, but would it matter if we dwelled in uncertainty? Would we be any happier? Or any more sure of ourselves? Methinks, not. In fact, the mundane would be eliminated, would it not? Although, progress would be hindered, damn that little thing called entropy. It governs like an iron fist, bent on determining how we are to lead.

Hmm, oh well. There's always the chance that I may be going insane, with these weird contemplations. Wouldn't that be grand?

Upon the Grass

Is it I who inscribes himself upon the shale of immortality;
To wander naught in the realms of habitude,
But in the whimsical nature of alienation
And I humbly ask: To what pleasure is thine, upon this epiphany?

To transcend the dogma of mundane eccentricities
Is to astound the world, classically
For the venerated sage offers, in his palm, a resonating force, lost to the
Echo in the halls of humanity

As the sun dawns upon pale flesh
The intrinsic surge of the prismatic being unto which I consist,
Disperse upon the plane of my existence
The shepherd, tending to the brilliance, gazes at the last sheep come

I jump, but forget how to stand
Ins
tead, I decide to levitate upon anxiety;
Meander through fear; and lose all worth in sorrow
I clearly mock the distain of others

I don’t desire to ruin this white canvas
But the watercolor infuses so well as to not
Lose the original serenity
Each stroke seeps into the fibers of being

The shores of dreams and valueless peace
Piece the fog of youth; crack my prism
Drawing forth a new revelation of inevitability
It will come, prepared or not

At this I realize
To what pleasure is thine, upon this epiphany

?J?na?h?n

Recently, I have came to the realization that what makes me whole, also fragments me. If that makes sense. Quizzically, I look around me and I find countless muses and whimisical after thoughts. To my right, I see my computer. Now, mind you, I have spent plenty of gasps and, "Oh my G-d, what have I done to it this time," but oh late, I do not experience the passion I once had. Then, I glance over to my wall to find my "Bush/Cheney '04!" poster, to which I find myself reminiscing upon the fervor that radiated from my voice, as I debated with liberal opponents. I find that intensity diminished as well. Ahh, what do we have here? Yes, my study tanakh (Hebrew Bible ). I got to Leviticus and stopped; that inspiration depleted as well.

Oh well, I suppose it isn't a bad thing. Just an observation, it'll come to pass.