The piano towers before me like a black monolith
its keys are the bones I'm learning to swing
teaching technology tediously
until I can explore space
between man and self.

I put myself in stasis
while I battle my machine.
The piano assumes autonomy over my command center
cutting off my air supply
until I'm completely disconnected
floating in space.

The piano requires my focus and dedication
so I go to boot camp
to pay my dues.
I see everyone marching in the same direction
I want to put soap in a sock
and make them stop.
But they willingly wash out one by one
the commitment too demanding
they **** themselves in the process
but I'm able to survive
because I view myself as a joker
allowing me to accept abuse.

Applying the skills we've learned
becomes war
everybody's trying to shoot me down
and firebomb me.
How am I supposed to compete
when they'll **** the audience's **** for five dollars
or snipe at me from inside their homes?
I'm safe behind the cover of my piano
but they've got me pinned down
and I can't move.

I need a nightingale to nuzzle up to my ear
and chirp the secret chord or lyric
that will allow me to enter the gates of Beverly Hills
with one simple word. Fidelio.

I want to be so successful
I'm able to get into Illuminati ******
and walk around looking like a witch doctor
saying, "Yo, they're really ******* on the coffee table, nice."
until I'm ordered to get back to playing piano
and start wondering
if at my highest aspirations
I'm just a rich man's *****.

she played me one of her songs
on a Steinway grand piano.
I thought it sounded like change falling into a Styrofoam cup
held in the hand of a hobo
sitting by a coffee stand.

You bring back,
memories when the skies were black,
shut the lights;
Everything black, wet everything.

Piano keys; soft sound of those strings
unveiled many blunders.

I’ll say thank you, every day of my life
As to when you arrive,
I’ll look in the sky, and won’t ever forget
to give you back,
a smile.

A female concert pianist
is playing at Carnegie Hall in Manhattan
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and
Debussy’s Clair de Lune and
other romantic melodies
which soothe the aching modern hearts
of her modern urban audience.

She’s 35 and still unmarried.
She’s never met a romantic man
who loves her
like she enjoys being loved:
Romantically like the Moonlight Sonata and
Claire de Lune.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.

During the concert
in breaks between playing pieces
she longingly scans the audience
for a handsome romantic single man
who’s waiting to love her
like she enjoys being loved:
Romantically like the Moonlight Sonata and
Clair de Lune;
but all she sees are couples, mostly old.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.

After the concert
on the taxi-ride to her hotel
the bubble of romantic melodies has burst
and she inures herself once more
to the modern car-horns and truck-roars
of busy city streets.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.

She gazes out the taxi window
at modern urban pedestrians
hustling and bustling on crowded sidewalks
rushing to their business appointments
ambitious for their career success.
It’s difficult to find a loving husband
in an unromantic world.

5 am blue reminds me
how to touch G on the piano.

there aren't many words i can think of to define it, really.

but i do know it's like crying. quiet tears welling and holding someone tight to your chest, imagining what it must be like
to feel something holding you together.

it is gentle, the way you would comfort a snowflake, the center of a child's eyes. the shy flower that unfolds like precious origami in the dark.

it is the silence, sound of breathing.

it is delicate, like trust and empathy and
understanding.


it is what i want to play for you.