Tuesday, June 10, 2014


Contracting bands of blue, so scorching that you could practically feel the flame-birthing frostbite. They burn with unfettered brightness, keen, and piercing — what else?

Etchings of arced and aggregated anticipation (although anxiety might be closer to truth). A cold engine of peerless perception settled behind the seats of the soul, those protein portals into the heart of the unfathomable and contemplative.

Acoustic tremors — baritone, if not just cooly collected and implicating aloofness in the most becoming way; a chilly detachment permitting an acute acuity into the nature of existence and the string theories binding the flesh and bones together. An academic predisposition into the inner workings and musings of men and women alike, permitted by the perennial potential of some stone yet unturned, unbeknownst to the greater, continuing world — the world that has been darkened in light of the one shut off.

An encouragement of the mellifluous Marvin Gaye — the matchless melody and soul burning brightly, spinning and shining all of the criteria that constitute a cultured appreciation and a primal contemplation of the subtleties of rhythm and expression and the brightest, shining strands of silken sound.

A house deserted of its avuncular inspiration, devoid of its Socratic sire, and ringing empty like chronic tinnitus and a hole in the chest.