written as kind of a short story? but then formatted like a poem... suffering more than a bit of identity crisis right now...

While his guitar weeps, but not gently. Violently.

The song starts

With the rumble of bass notes

In the tip of my tail bone,

Right above my ass.


But it thrums in time

With the bass line.

Every note vibrates up my spine,


Is where the guitar riffs


Running up the vertebrae

T12 to T1,

Every knob a fret on

The Fender Telecaster

He's playing.

The lyrics,

More for sound than for meaning,

Just another

Part of the music,

Tingle along the back

Of my skull into my jaw,

I can't sing, but sometimes

I don't have to.

Words that mean nothing

With a meaning that says


Percussion was

Always my favorite,

The snap of the snare

In my eyelids

Mimicking the pulse

Of my heart.

The clash

Of the cymbals


Just behind my belly button,

And the bass drum

Is in my thumbs

Vibrating the beat

Through my body

Strange and beautiful.

Jumping with a rhythm

That mingles and swirls

With the others being created.

His songs are all


From conversations he's had,

The rise and fall,

Crescendo and decrescendo

Of tone.

Murmurs and shouts,

He even includes

The pauses



The sighs

And eyebrow raising.

You can almost


The guitar think

Beneath his skilled fingers

As his hands love his guitar

Dreaming and building and…

He claims he's not a magician.