The solace of music, substance of contentment. The air is filled with sounds, and words ride on the wind created by the ceiling fan. A woman's voice, high and light. Her guitar, a powder blue color. I sit and rock, forth and back, and forth again. My foot shakes beneath the desk, in time to the rhythm that is. I have no intention, only to write and see what I say. The music dispels any real thought, any significant notion, any meaningful idea. I am just hosting the music, allowing it to pass through me, and interpreting the sounds into small words upon the screen. I hear the harmonies, and they remind me of birds that fly in perfect formation, and also of different shades of the same color, overlapping and matching quite nicely. I have said before that harmony is my favorite aspect of music. If I had to break it down, I would say that there are three parts to music, these being the rhythm, the melody, and the harmony. The rhythm is pure love, it is the speed, also the beat, the tempo; sometimes invisible, rhythm is the base, the bottom, the underneath, the floor, the Earth of a song. The rhythm provides the stage upon which the rest of the music may occur; the rhythm says, "Here you go." The rhythm is for dancing. It is the prompt. It begins, and that's your cue. The melody is the answer to the prompt of the rhythm. It is for singing, or playing. The melody joins the rhythm, it is carried by the rhythm through time, to its completion and ultimate resolution. The melody is a stream of notes, in an order that is pleasing to the fingertips and eardrums. It starts in one place, and ends in another, perhaps even the same place. The melody has a lifespan, it has a definite measure. It may go wherever it likes, but for it to be pleasing to the eardrums and fingertips, it must return "home," else it should become lost and no longer be recognized or understood; the purpose of a melody is to be remembered. The rhythm is eternal, the melody is temporal. The rhythm must repeat for the rhythm to be. Yet the melody may stand alone, without being repeated or played again. The melody is preserved and saved within memory. Yet the rhythm must be created from scratch each and every time it is needed. Rhythm is toneless while melody is to tone. But harmony... Harmony is different. Harmony may only exist after rhythm and melody have been established; it is an addition, a supplement and complement to the whole; it is extra. It accentuates the melody by occuring within the same rhythm, teasing the melody, giving it a depth and volume. The two notes become eachother. It reproduces the melody. If rhythm is the father, and melody is the mother, then harmony is the child who joins his parents to make the family even more complete than it could have been before; the child helps its parents understand and continue to feel eachother throughout the duration of the song. I love the harmony. I can't explain it. It just sounds so good. I love it because it takes two voices. One voice can sing the melody, but two voices can sing the harmony. Harmony represents friendship, agreement, understanding, and acceptance. It is all I want. Rhythm and Melody are all I need, but Harmony is all I want. God, this music. Thank God for music.

My dear! I host a feeling soft and serene, comparable to clouds swirling up through my core, sweet winds unwinding their forms, bringing them up higher and higher still... I draw my breath, a steady intake, and I release these invisible clouds; I feel them leave me, travelling back up to the sky, wherefrom they did originate, where first they were born. You are the feeling which lives inside of me; I hold you like a deep, deep breath, and you sustain me, and you keep me, and you lift me up, high, high above the rest of my surroundings. You are the water that breaks through my eyes' gate of stone. You reach the outside world, you breach the impassable walls, you emerge as if it were nothing; and you absorb the light from the sun, as if it were some gorgeous liquid, and you were some energy sponge. The heat is your orange juice, and the breeze is your glass; you are the draught of a summer day. I feel you, wherever you are. Yesterday, you were. Today, you are. Tomorrow, you will be. I pray that I am with you always.

Which one shall I love? There are two from which to choose; one who's nature is dark and mysterious, the other who floats like a bubble, oblivious, cute, humourous, and very similar to myself in many ways. She is already a friend, but might she be more? And this first one, dark, elusive, mysterious, she is quite unlike myself, but perhaps this is what I desire. She is a woman, whereas the other is still a girl. What does a woman want with me? And what have I to do with a woman? I admit, the curiosity is attractive. And she is quite fine as well. I just don't know. I will continue on, and I will hear what life has to say. The girl and the woman will present themselves to me, and I will select based on my feelings for each one. They will let me know who it is that I shall love, but first like, but first decide to like. Life will let me know, and I will thank life. I will see the girl today, and I will meet the woman tomorrow. The woman has a gift for me, and she had a dream "with me in it" not too long ago. The girl has a smile for me, and she will sit beside me and stare with me out the wide windows that overlook the school parking lot. We will talk, and play the guessing game together before we go to speech class. I may touch her, even hold her hand; we shall see. Oh, frank white space, I am appreciative that you take the time to listen to me; though you have no choice in the matter, I am grateful all the same, because you accept me, and you accept my markings all across and upon yourself. Let life be the same as you, dear frank white space.

My dreams will tease me
with soft feathers,
they tickle my nose as
I snooze into the
dark mornings.
They offer brief
glimpses into potential
futures, lend sweet
scents of possible
lovers, express hidden
rage and fear, depict
intense wars with my
father, gorgeous ideas
which stem from the petals
of bright spring flowers,
colored eggs which crack up
like teenage girls in fits
of joyous laughter, it all
goes together in one great
swirl of emotion and feeling.
They ask of me, my dreams,
"What do you love?"
I have not the answer,
but I do enjoy marvelling
at the sheer poetic beauty
in their method of questioning.
I am so enamoured by my
mystical teacher, that I can
not respond when she closes
her mouth, discontinuing her
lovely speech.
I simply say, "do go on."
The dreams are my friends,
and also my superiors.

Wherefor art thou, my dreams?

Whatever the solution, still
I love thee with all the energy
my heart and soul can muster.

Continue to baffle me.
Cast me into confusion.
Happily shall I puzzle
over thee, for eternity.

I met a girl named Katelyn last night, I got off work and her friend was waiting for me, there by the door. She said, "This is very twelve year oldish, but my friend is very attracted to you, and she wondered if she could get your number." I was like, "Of course, I actually came over here for the same reason." I said, "Let's go talk to her." So we went around the corner and there she stood, young looking, blond hair, blue eyes, wide pupils, come to think, I didn't really perceive her body, which is most likely a good sign. We sat on a couch that was just set out in the mall, and we three talked for a good amount of time. About family, school, life, love, relationships, histories... She was very cute. I liked to watch her talk. She is 18, about to graduate this year. She is the age of my brother. What will happen? I don't have a clue. All I know is I have her number now, and we'll most likely be texting on and off. We'll see. It is strange that it is nearly a year to the day from when I met Mariah... And we all know how that turned out, eh? Haha, whatever, it don't matta. We'll just see. :) How perfectly I remember, sitting on Mariah's couch, this past January, watching the super bowl... The Who played the halftime show. I remember feeling emotional, for some reason. I do recall that Mariah's mother was crying on the telephone, cannot remember with whom, but I felt the wave that she must also have felt, as the Who played perfect songs from my past. I remember I cried too, there on the couch with Mariah. She was holding me, we were very close; I remember I said, "sometimes, I wish I just WAS music. Because music doesn't have to deal with any of this, music just plays on, forever. Music is oblivious, music is perfect, music is separate from us. I wish I was music." Mariah said, "Don't cry, you are music." It went something like that... It was a crazy moment though. Something about all the elements of everything coming together perfectly. I also remember the Bud Light commercials, there new slogan was "Here we go." I remember finding this ominous. And here, as this year finally draws to a close, I can't help but thinking, "Here we go again." Life is a chute and a ladder, all at once. Sliding and climbing, falling and rising, all at once. Life is coming, and it is going, and this, I suppose, is the duality. Here and there, all and one, in and out, up and down, on and off, before and behind, always and never. All at once, All at once.

There is adversity which scowls upon us, and there is disaproval which bears down upon us, and the weight is sometimes so heavy, and our legs shake as we struggle to remain upright; but there is a secret strength which we hold deep within the recessess of being, and when entrusted, our strength emerges, as would an hidden warrior, and this strength will fight for us, and He will fall in our stead. For our strength is also the unspeakable might of love, and because He is our Strength, He becomes our Love, and our Love would never let us die. And there is hatred, which glares through fearful eyes, which bleeds venom from crooked fangs, and hatred attempts to arrest us, to consume us, and to ultimately devour us, so that we become Hatred ourselves; but there is a truth that laughs at Hatred's scheme, for truth does know that Hatred is but a liar, a coward, a weakling, and a fool, and Hatred cannot see past the brim of his own nose, and that Hatred will not survive past the eve of his own demise. And truth smiles from within, for truth shines for all to see, and truth shows for all to know, and truth is a fountain which happily giggles for eternity, and truth invites us to join in her play, she bids us to forsake old Hatred, to abandon dear Perdition, to become one with all that is good, and to sever from all that was once evil, and truth bestows a promise unto those with opened ears: it is true that all of this must pass away, but be brave and show courage, believe in all that I am, and at the eve of said demise, you shall not perish, but be saved, and you shall be brought away to be forever, here with me, as me, for me, and in the name of me. Now off to work.

Swimming along never far from where we began, we cut through the waters with razor sharp fins. And the waves are only evidence of our existence, or are we only evidence of theirs? Either way, the waves roll onward forever, and we catch rides whenever we can, loving the lightness of the feeling of being carried, being taken, being had. We live for the waves, and the waves roll on for us. Let us thank the waves, and let us thank whatever 'twas that did bring the waves to us. Dear God, I am grateful for the waves which occupy the water, and I am grateful for the vessel that is my body, which is carried and cleansed, and crashed upon by these waves. I feel the waves within me, rocking the boat of my soul gently back and forth, back and forth. It is afloat. Peace.

Lewd, Salacious, Pernicious, Lascivious World of Images. What is it that you want from us? You draw us in. = You draw a sin. You convince as you conceal. Sheer conspiracy, Grave contrivance, Grand contamination. You persuade as you pervert. Perturbed as we peruse, though still as still do we persist. We cannot stop, We mustn't, We shan't. Dear Computer, Lord of Availability, King of Instantaneous Gratification; God of Anything, Connection simple as the spell at the tips of our fingers. Followed by striking the Enter key. How funny, how fitting, how frightening, how fantastic, that Enter is just the same as Return. To Enter is To Return How ominous it is when one pauses for just a moment to think. Or to Ponder, as a brother so aptly put. If I may rearrange... Enter=enturR When we have finally Entered, We will have only just Returned. Funny that when we consider the word RETURN, we think of coming back to something. Why is this so? The prefix RE- means back, again, or anew. Return = To Rotate Again. Return = To Spin Back Return = To Become Anew. I think of some great wheel, turning, and returning, and returning, and returning, and returning, and returning, again, and again, forever and ever and ever, without fail, without break or interruption, without hesitation, halt, or any hindrance whatsoever. To spin is to return, infinitely. The great wheel is time. The Clock is this wheel, and it does spin on and on, turns again and again, carrying us immediately, inexorably forthe. And if we are turning, then we are returning. Where are we coming, or going back to? What might happen when finally have we RETURNED? If we are all ways entering, where will we be when we have finally ENTERED? What then will we be? I'm reminded, first of Devendra, then of another quote spoken by a brother. "I felt like it was my turn." How funny, how fitting, how frightening, how fantastic, that this is OUR TURN. This grand, ultimate returning, this holy rotation, this spin of infinity belongs TO US. Check this out. If it is HOURS, then it is OURS. These are Hours, Yes, these are Ours. The Hours are Ours. If you read that aloud, there is no distinction between these words twain. Because the WORD IS ONE. Spelt in different ways to rend our mind in two. Just as reading aloud is certainly allowed, and in fact, preferred, or at least from this writer, recommended. It's All Hour Turn. Olive Hour Turn. My poetry is literally a maze, full of abstract bends and rude advantages. I use the English Language to twist ideas into pictures from which I derive and devise secret and/or hidden meanings. Are you cereal? Oh yeah, super cereal. Also read as serial, which means, "appearing in a series of continuous parts at regular intervals." Think of Cheerio's as you pour them from the box, into the bowl. As they fall in that steady stream, like dry rain, each piece apparently identical, they settle and collect, building and filling untill you decide there is enough. Is there not serial in the bowl? Is this not a bowl of cereal? Are not these separate words peculiarly close together when one stops to ponder? Funny that this is not a joke. This is actually serious. Hahaha. There is also Sirius, but I'm through with that stint. Ah, you know, I think I'm through with this whole thing. I'll leave you with this... When IIIIIII was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse! Out of the corner of my eye! I turned to look, but it was gone, I cannot put my finger on it now, the child is grown, the dream is gone. IIIIIII-III-III! have become! Comfortably numb. *guitar*

There are a handful of girls who dance across the frayed edges of my mind; some dance so that I may see the way their bodies move, some dance only because they themselves love the movement, and so enjoy the music that my mind does make for them. There is Lindsay, who kissed me while we layed on the grass out back of the alternative highschool from which she graduated, she led me, and I followed, and a couple weeks later, she revealed that she had a boyfriend. His name is Juan, he is from Colombia, he lives down the street from her, in Denver. It's whatever, I'm broke anyway. She dances, and I recognize her beauty and abilities, but also do I see this strange fear, and sense this peculiar sense of abandonment, and confusion, and I accept it all, I deem her a friend, nothing more, and I am happy for her happiness, even if it is based upon a lie, because isn't most happiness? Then there is Amanda, she and I were together a number of years ago. A couple weeks back, I visited her at her duplex in Arvada. We drank a bottle of wine, began touching, feeling on the couch, we started to kiss, it was like driving through an old town I remembered driving through on some vacation in the distant past. Beware of feeding nostalgia, for it will in turn devour it's own master. So yeah, we had sex, she thanked me, we smoked a cigar, I slept on her couch, she in her bed, and I drove home the next morning. Still haven't seen her since then. Is it weird that I'm the one who feels used? Ah well, lapse of judgement on my part. Stupid. Whatever. In her, I sense an indefatigable laziness, a tireless zone of apathy, I sense her running away from the exact things she knows that she needs. I cleaned her apartment for her, because she is too butthurt at her roomate for making the mess. I said, It has to be done, so I'll do it. Such is Life, right? Then there is Heather, also an old girlfriend, my first real love, if I may. She also has a boyfriend, Keith, they're living together, working it out, Heather tells me, It's a process. I'm glad to say that there is no longer any sexual tension between the two of us, we overcame that around this time last year. I remember the snow on the ground outside her apartment, as we went out for cigarettes in between fiery drunken makeout sessions, while certain movies ran forgotten from the TV in her living room... Funny that I'll never see that apartment again. I never even had a chance to properly say goodbye. Se la vi... Whatever dawg... Anyway, the tension has left us, or rather we've decided to set it free, for both our sakes. Now we talk about this certain spiritual connection we share. Cheesyness aside, the shit is true. I can just feel the girl, when I'm with her, when I hear her voice, when I see her eyes, when we dive into deep conversation, it just all makes sense like nothing else in this crazy life can. There is just something, and she and I always try to keep up with eachother, keep one another updated on changes, but it's been a number of weeks since last I saw her, she keeps postponing, I'm cool with it, just wondering away... Alright, then there is Ivy. Ivy works with me at Hot Topic, she has beautiful read hair, and is very cute in a unique, intriguing kind of way. I've spoken with her a few times, there is a tangible chemistry, and I catch her eyes during our shifts, she smiles and I smile back, sometimes with raised eyebrows; tonight, she told me, "one of my favorite songs is the spin doctors song that goes, If you, like to call me baby, just go ahead now..." Honestly, I wouldn't mind calling her baby... but work has this policy that sales associates aren't allowed to hang out outside of the workplace. So I've been hesitant in attempting to beginning or inviting anything. But this Friday, I work with her alone for a few hours. We will see. She is quite nice. Then there's Emily Healey. Old friend from Highschool, ran into her at my brother's play at the highschool from which we both graduated in 09. We caught up a bit, I kinda always felt that she had a thing for me, I got her number, said that I would call her if I was ever down in denver. Still haven't contacted her, I could use a new friend, but my interest in Ivy is stronger than my interest in Emily, so I may be patient a little while longer. It's just a crowded, convoluted mess that runs around inside my head. Luckily, my home, my hands, my clothes, my dishes, my UA's, my teeth, my mirrors are all clean, and the money is rolling in steady as it ever has; I got a good thing going here by myself, but I just can't help but always keep my options open, and hold onto old loves, because I can't stand to see them vanish, fade, disappear, or God forbid, die. Nothing will die, it will only change. I just have to be careful of which lines I decide to cross. I have a feeling that I should only choose one. Too many crossings makes a tangled up mess, a knotty ruin, an insufferable headache of a situation. For now, I have my guitar, and my family, and my ideas. I'll be making money, and I'll be on the look out for developments. Keep ya posted.

There is nothing that I could possibly say into this screen at the moment, nothing of any real substance; this is my thought as I begin to type, as words begin to appear black inside a clean field of whiteness. Of course, I can fill a white box with black words, as if I ever had trouble doing this; the catch is that I wish to make these words something special, I wish them to be more than just words; but what more can they be? Well, on the more blessed nights, the words come to life, and become something that is even out of my own control, it is as though they take on a spirit of their own, and they take me for a ride, through landscapes of ideas, like they are some winged beast that flies over the world, and I am upon the back of the great creature, looking down, seeing all of the tiny houses of the villages, all the specks of human beings, way down there, I can barely see the colors of their hats, but there they all are, and there is the sun, when I look up into the sky, and I hear the deep rumbles of the great beast's breathing, and yes, the wind is in my hair, blowing all around, and peace is within that small, wonderful moment. Ahh, do you see? It caught me there for a second, it comes unexpectedly, like a strong gust of wind that would push down a lonely grey street, causing the many fallen leaves, now homeless, it would seem, to rise and spin and swirl, all around as you stare out the kitchen window, and for a moment you would simply hold your cup of coffee by the porcelain handle, and you would not even notice that your mouth hung open ever so slightly, and your thoughts would be no more than, wow... as images of beauty pass through us without a sound, wordless, void of idea, a simple, pure, blank, clear nothingness, perhaps that is peace... The sheer recognition of beauty, the involuntary moment of awe, when you forget that you are human, you forget about your hands, about your lips, about your hair, you forget about everything but for the sequence of event to which you are a witness; in these small moments, we are oblivious, free, we are without care, without worry; we positively become the beauty captured by our eyes. It comes into us, and it looks around, it sees that the curtains are drawn, and it pushes them back open, and light touches the dusty floor, and inside of us, a glow commences to melt the walls, and rest twists into our soul, and we float away, back into that old nothing, that lovely old familiar nothing, why, it is where I am now, even as these words still appear... And I believe, the point is, my dear friend, that the idea is secondary to the beauty that is natural and innate within these streams of conscious thought. It takes me where it will, and I am happily along for the ride; the words are my ticket to infinity, how funny that they are both my ticket and vehicle, allowing my passage and also whisking me away to the destinations of their choosing; I am only a passenger, though I do hold a sort of imaginary steering wheel, which I turn in my hands like a child at the park, pretending to sail on some make believe ocean, knowing with all my heart that I command the vessel, that I decide where it is that I go, easily forgetting the fact that I have never moved, and that the ocean below me is only wood chips and gravel rocks; but in my head, the wind is in my sails, and it is carrying me, off and away, into the horizon, I can just see everywhere, the waves speak to me as they lap upon the sides of my ship, I can understand them, and they are my companions. I suppose it must be said that I am just writing to music, the songs change, taking my ideas in different directions, thoughts are places, I find it dreadfully obvious, right now, I'm hearing Michael Jackson, Man in the Mirror, and it sounds yellow and flashy, and I love his voice, I'll never care about any word said against Michael Jackson, he felt music so intensely, and I can tell when I hear him sing. Into your heart I'll beat again, sweet like candy to my soul, I was thinking early today that music is freedom; I believe it to be true. Music may go wherever it wishes, yet good music only goes wherever it should, never where it should not. That is a beatiful thought. There are only certain notes that ring true in each key, and the perfect, beautiful music only dares to stray where it knows it will complement the rest of itself, for to hit wrong notes is only to take away from the grand illusion of beauty, perfection. Imagine if people were like music. Imagine that all of life is just one lovely song, each human is an instrument that contributes to the great arrangement, the ultimate orchestration of so many and so much, every notion, every action of positivity is a perfect harmony, every good deed is a soaring melody that would bring a tear to the eye of any observer with the smallest shred of a soul. However, each negative remark, each snide comment, each angry look, each lie fashioned and spread, each hateful word, each frightened insult, each ounce of fear and envy, each despicable act, all of these are horrible, cringe causing, grinding, discordant abberances from the intended beauty of the song. Think of how the world must sound today. All it makes me want to do is play as well as I can, and make the sound beautiful for any and all that may hear it from me. If I am music, then I will strive to be good music, music that I myself would love to hear if it were played back to me. Makes one ask the question, are our songs recorded? Is the one great song being listened to by some one?