I believe in music. Most people listen to it, but I let it inside me. It fills me and inspires me. I need it. I always have it. It has become like a parasite, boring its way into my head and living through me. I can’t help but write and hum and compose music – it reproduces through me, only to infect those who next hear it! It is the worst kind of addiction because I can never get rid of it. If I deprive myself of its embrace and stuff silence in my ears, the parasite inside me starts to bore out of my mouth, contorting my voice into replicas and hybrids and bastard melodies that wrench themselves from my throat.
But oh, the rush! No drug I know can draw hidden secrets forth and carry you into a celestial ocean of imagination the way music can. It’s other worlds! The rhythm rattles my fingertips and knuckles against panes of glass and wooden desks and my own infested flesh. The bass drum beats my heart and I skip when cymbals crash. I am the air, blown through brass, cavorting into minor contortions and laughing my bittersweet melodic frenzy. I am the hand in unity with ivory, beckoning beauty out of stubborn strings, I tap out glory in a cascade of streaming fingers that drowns black and white alike. I am no longer human. I think in notes and have only one sense.
I spring forth trees from the tips of supple fingers. Singsong birds flit amidst a writhing tributary of explosive growth. Bark cracks like fingerprints and ten thousand leaves umbrella overhead. I think: I am a forest, and a smile splits my face to let the rain come pouring out.
I go numb in snow.
Falling flakes alight my face and freeze the knuckles in my fingers.
One rests atop an eyelash and my heart melts when you blink.
We ate breakfast together, you and I.
You at your table, me at mine.
Our eyes met like lover’s hands,
But hearts are not so easily persuaded.
I wake up screaming this is not my story it does not belong to me, it is too shiny, too simple, where are the cracks and the frayed edges – you’ve given me a train track but I hate noise and speed terrifies me, so while you thunder through the valley I’ll pick my way across the mountain top slipping on plastic bottles and cutting my hands on broken glass, but at least I won’t feel so even, I’ll still have corners and sharp edges – I won’t roll so easy – I’m what you call odd.