Listen @

Months in retrograde
Reaching backwards
Setting charts

Documenting each lover
failure and success

I learned to love myself
when I could not write
Then mastered how to gauge
the flood of inspiration

I learned to stop life
To dam. Omit
Refrain from celebration

Some mornings I woke
swarming with words
Some words I wrote
some I ignored

I learned to theorize about the act
when full silence fell upon my life
I learned to write about writing
when there were no concepts to summon
or keep at bay

I learned to appreciate sitting outside of madness.
Bypassing trite themes
Observing similar characters
walking on and off of stages
I learned to succumb to the archetypal drama

We overstand what it requires
to make a life well documented
To take a life down on paper
Learned the rhythms
Sensing when to pick up the pen
Never setting it down

To not ignore the muse when she calls
To miss her like an absent mother
To long for her
To summon her, to cry out for her
To be indifferent toward her

We have chosen an art
One that takes a magnifying glass
to the threads that stitch our lives together
Cutting along the seems
Examining the mind,
the heart, the body
the movements of nature
The dance of the living
the dance of the dead

We were drunk
We were sober
We are present
We are peering into
and passing through
revolving dimensions

We’ve learned to set out the time
for introspection
To go into the impulse, the trigger
Examining the matter and immaterial

Revealing the self to the self
Revealing the shifting boundaries
between self and other
whole and particle
tribe and individual

Students of the romantic
the real

This is how we’ve lived
In the depth and in the shallows
In the plastic, the plasticity, and the stubborn
In the fantasy
and in freezing chrome of indifference

Systemic dedication to the process
Of allowing the whole of being
to run through the hand and onto the page
Run through the page and into print
Through print and into the microphone
Through the amp and into the crowd
for the the observance of quint celebration
for the small gratitude in connection

And it is as if my life was not my own
It is as if the love, the static, the heat
Were shared themes activated for the stanza

Living for the letter
Living for the line
that goes silent when unread
Living for the line
that dies when unsung

M S C, 06182016



For Joe


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