intelligent Iggy iguana is impossible,
ignorant, ill, if it is in.
impersonator Igel is into infinitive items
I illustrate intros
Iberia is interesting in ice
I'm Impeccable!

I have a friend who plays guitar
I've worked with thousands ... but none quite like him.
His chord choices, the melodies and the riffs that he plays
They can only come from within.

He's been out living as a big rock star
But that's not quite the world that you'd think.
It's a rugged, rough struggle of perseverance and passion
And your life flashes by in a blink.

He isn't a shredder as are many these days
Never cramming notes where they don't belong.
He is tasteful and creative, a sound so original
His strings envelop the songs.

He has no need to display some arrogant plumage.
He doesn't show off with any thousand-note solos.
He doesn't do intros that are way too long.
His moody style transcends virtuoso.

He is my friend and proven it so
Once guiding me through a valley of black.
Not with his music, although that helped.
He did so with his hand on my back.

A music teacher once told me that
"Music is the silence between notes".
If that is true, then his silence is golden
As I love every song that he's wrote.

So all you pickers, players and shredders
in garages or with gold albums on the wall.
Take a lesson, from this humble man
You needn't over play at all.

But don't think that he is timid or without some flair
Don't make boastful quips that you think are so witty.
If the mood and the moment strikes him just so
He can make that guitar sound like Godzilla destroying a city.

I am so proud to call him my "Brother"
Such a musician, such a friend.
His music and his camaraderie have both touched my soul
and I hope that neither see's end.

It hurt
Being made fun of
In the bathroom
That way
I got myself
Back to class
A whale
Shrinking the ocean
With sleep

Last night I told my wife
There were little hands
Tugging
On my jeans

Small enough to die
Please
Pleaser

We lay in bed
Touching once a while
I take a bold step
Turned down
But is it one of those intros
Can't tell


I take a step back
But then then she takes a step forward
I'm confused
If there's a middle can we meet there?


If I could read her mind
I feel her heart beat uneven
Interpreted as nervousness
I could be wrong
But if I could read her mind.

...oh, I dunno, a variety of intros could suffice, whence, none might as well, no?

(sonnet #MMMMMMMCCCXLIII)


I caught the ghost of mists likeas a veil
Down in the valley where trees clustered thence
'Hind shifting white's detail, rain waltzing hence
Without a voice as't tiptoes 'cross the tale
Of weedy blacktop; firs mair silent, frail
Calm hanging 'til winds ply the Maples' dense
Green, and the distance lost to that suspense,
Whiles I chid rain for being light; to exhale.
You listen to--is't my complaints? and YOUR
Response of "you're amazing" fails me too.
So I wish to just kiss and tease you fer
All that to...chase me--which you say you'll do.
Right now seems but a pipe dream, mists in poor
'Scuse on what lies 'fore:  I belong to YOU.

20Aug18a

Look -- O’ look
The books we could be;
Seas of lumber
Slumber in dusty sleeves.
Thieves of the night
Write on our eyes;
Lies in the form of words,
Worlds in forms of home.
Some call it fiction,
Imagination calls it sanity
Gravity of our own two feet
Meet to stay alive.
“Strive” it tells me.
“Be all that you can and more.
Doors lead to windows,
Intros to the Galaxy.
Actually living more lives than one.
Undo the restrictions-
Dictions people have over you.
Few are even close
Most will never get there.
Here there is only you
Through the woods behind the books

Ditched by the people I used to love
Thoughts dashed apart by uncertainty
But hey, it's my life.
Lord of what I see, king of the carnivals of ruin.
On hold, is what we are.
On hold, is what we were..
I can't hold on, to an empty space.
But I've learnt to take it easy on myself.
Yeah.
The new intros.
The old rusty confessions.
The islands, the bridges now burnt.
My life and yours, in VCR.
My breath, chained in yours.
This basic space, together.
In the sunset that never came.


Her records start to screech to a halt, my tears begin drying up.
Her portrait begins turning blood red,
my foaming mouth closing up.

my soul is ink spreading through
water on a page,
among other things.
things like a cop passing me with
hash in my pocket,
like sage growing in the kitchen
window of a one bedroom
apartment in Brooklyn,
like sharing memories through
thin walls that stretch across the
whole country.

ive done just about nothing
and I'm no longer proud of that.

how does that sound as far as intros go?

He is the rays of my rainbow
radiance, bursting beats
and bass, bright vibrant
eyes of magnificent memories,
melanin cheeks, smooth lips
filled with amazing dreams,
gleaming eyebrows elevating
towards a constellation of galaxies.
his beautiful brown soul glows
in the night and dances in the
moon’s illumination of inventions,
his serene imagination a million
rhymes of incredible instruments,
high igniting notes whirling
in the wind, wondrous flights
over towering sights.  His essence
flows inside my flesh and creates
captivating harmonies, timeless
classics transcending the universe.
Diamond diction, honey brown
soul of pure uptempo’s, intoxicating
intros, hypnotizing hooks, and astonishing
outros. I can breathe in the addictive
sounds from his vessel, boundless
rivers defining his depiction,
a spotlight of solid beats sounding
off in the boulevard.  He is my favorite
love story in the night, a perfect
movie demanding praise, an array
of music blasting galaxies, to feel
his flesh pressed upon mine,
stroking my ******* with his
fingers, so sensual and deep I
could taste the sheer melodies
rising from beneath his surface,
lyrical labyrinths and majesties,
a vibrant palace romanticizing
my thoughts, entering my dreams,
opening brilliant doors as I embrace
his nation.

I finally get to love me
when you left me
without goodbyes
without whys and because
without intros and the ends
I finally get to see me
the true worth
I'm supposed to be

(Soft and whispered, as in some pop punk song intros)

(The circle goes round
The spiral goes down
You become what you don't want.

Who is the cent-eral figure,
Is he a beacon of hope?
I'd-shuh hate to be so blunt)

(Power chords)

(Shouted emotionally)

You go on and be a paladin, cuz you can be, I
I'll just take the obligation
You deny it's what you do to me, do to me, but I know
I'm a blatant disappointment

If you could make me feel, make me feel, like weee hyad hope
Even if it was a **** lie
You would give me the sensation
Well before you were indi-yeeted
For every wohn of yoah **** lies

Now Iyhh, deon't, bleame you
For lyen to me, lyen to me
Lyi-ennn is all we kyann doh
Frommh, theatt, vantage
It ohmost seems like allll we evuh dooo
All we do is tahll - the - truth.

(More vicious)

The circle goes round.

The spiral goes down.

You become what you don't want.

Who is the center-al figyuh?

A beacon of hope?

I'd shoah hate to behy sooo blunt!

Ask me again if I didn’t
fall for his alluring charm,
the many riveting personalities
of his boundless creativity,
night jamming eyes a thousand
dimensions of wondrous words,
star-shine vowels, sparkling
conjunctions and junctions,
fecund features – upbeat,
unplugged, the riffs and runs,
melodic intros pulling me
into his astonishing invention.
Ask me again if I didn’t want
to kiss his luscious lips, breathe
new life into his soul as he held
his hands around my wheeling
hips, embracing the now and forever
of our blissful chapter, his magic
nation equating with my essence,
brilliant foundations, algebraic
equations, harmonizing derivatives
and fractions, a mathematician’s
world of genius mountains shining
in flawless sight.  Ask me again
if I didn’t want to lay on his thighs,
feel the beats rise, the cool chemistry
rowing into the palm trees – the days
when he strolled along the sidewalk,
his head bumping to Tupac’s song,
Keep Ya Head Up, jamming to the
bassline, waving his hands in the sky
like he was a lyrical God, the nights
when he laid on the sofa, his mind
wandering in the clouds, wondering
if he’d ever reach beyond the stars.
Ask me again if I didn’t want to share
our worlds together, dance in his
moonlight, the gleaming stanzas
in his poetry, the science in his
spaceship, the slow turns and sharp
swerves, the picturesque streets
glowing in the sun, every seamless
direction pointing the way towards
a path of glittering gateways.

Perhaps in a better place
My pianos sit untouched
And the neighbours get to live
In peace without the hundreds
Of song intros that never
Progress to the chorus
Floating upstairs from the patio.
A better place where there'd
Be one less in the class,
Maybe an empty chair or
Perhaps a different
Arrangement altogether;
25, a perfect square
Without one extra to care for.
In a better place
There'd be more space
In the studio for the other
17-ish dancers, minus one
That always travelled too
Much, took up too much room
Physically and mentally.
In a better place these
Poor trees
Would have been put to
Better use, better than
Too many words too many
Don't want on paper;
Too many words in air
Exhaled from a mouth
That moves too much.
In a better place there'd be
More oxygen, more food,
More water.
In a better place
My parents only have one daughter.