The music spreads its tenement over a city of spirits & coffee flats.

A voice chases the tail of a broken wind,

sipping sentiments from the minds of a people

aching to be free from the claustrophobic raiments of society.

 

A man w/his strolling guitar forsakes the city

in the lilac wake of a flute dream reaching timidly

for the hand of any god wearing a jaded dress,

spilling forth lace & perfect notes nearly weeping

in the midst of angels falling into flight.

 

Everywhere, the dawn lies september failures down in the tired streets.

A flower breaks its petals into bloom,

then laughs loud enough to whisper over the edge

of someone else’s beautiful scream scattered

across a concrete floor into insanity.

 

The door to the basement café closes,

leaving the bones to hallow w/in, where no one is dying,

but a funeral song just finishes its last verse.

No body hears the final note touch briefly on silence,

then dissipate into obscure obelisks.

 

On Thursdays, Friday turns to green to hide its child-echo indigo eyes

& week’s end follows a subtle rinse of sunshine around the corner.

Monday comes anyway w/too many melodies

playing in the private garden of a backyard cemetery.

 

The morning rolls carefully to the end of the line

& waits for the moon to glow

so it can let go & disperse itself into music,

sleeping in a bed of fluidic ambiguity.