cdxi. the typhoon season

defiant, i sing along, face the night sky, swallow raindrops, dance, until i know that yes, i can survive anything.

ccclxxxv. 5 million decibels

i imagined what a thousand saxophones would sound like if they all played together. one thousand saxophones, different songs, different tempos, dixieland, miles davis. maybe it would sound like birds or bombs or planes.

ccclvii. the tears of a clown

smokey robinson and the miracles took a good look at their faces in the mirror. berry gordy was making them sing a little too high.

cccxliii. bomberclad joint

reading is part of life, the anatomy of melancholy is part of life, music is part of life. but is it clear yet what wittgenstein meant when he declared that a subject is a limitation of the world? it is not. it is saturday. let’s party.

cccxli. solo sax

i hear a saxophone far off somewhere. i wonder if that sound is anything to believe in or if it’s just me bending the wind.

cccxxxix. cut to…

daydreaming memories of an empty pre-season beach, an ocean that tunes the high string in my chest. a bucket, a shovel, the sand crabs, and a million three-year-old questions.

cccxxxv. pacify

today, i am staying in the minor chords. i am trying to maintain what i’ve known since beyond being alive, juxtaposed with a shot of kfc in the fridge.

cccxxx. rainy night tonight

every leaf and breath and star and crickets and voice was perfect, lost in time like me, and i sang for the moon into dawn, the moon tearing wounds in the sky, savage and desperate to send me to bed.

cccxxix. i think it was music

when the clock gagged on, red glowing petals that floated up. i thought of sudden epiphanies with no memory.

cccxvii. you and me and don mclean

i don’t know why i sing “starry, starry night”, nor do i know what vincent was trying to say. all i know is everything comes alive; every blue, every yellow, and everything i knew of everything when i’m with you.