I am resonant
with lyric...
I am
resonant with lyric, a lifetime of song strung down the ages of my
internal landscape signposted with rhyming couplets and musical
passages that echo-find my way home: verses and choruses linking
places and people: long lost, half-remembered, almost-forgotten
friends lovers and acquaintances, the barely known, the fleeting few,
the one night stands that never left the corners of thanks into which
they crept: the heart sick hopes gone to seed, the deviations from
the peers of my youth, the secret longings and desires, the
confusions, denials, insights, affections and lusts sung imperfectly.
I am an
oratorio of discordant fugues from an age of early abuse, stumbling
towards spiritual reckoning, charted on scales by notations to self:
heal and be healed, forgive and be forgiven. Adopted by mercy, I am
confusion's child, come of age in a distempered time, both more and
less than I could have been, hovering somewhere in the mid-distance
of memory and outcome; a medley of all that came when fear first
began to sing for its supper among the disappearing stars, in the
days before the shadows fell and the darkness walked my dreams, when
the thrumming of my blood twisted my guts beyond recognition and I
became ashes translating flesh into dust, transposing wrongs into
weary tunes laid to rest.
I am an
identity crisis of confidence, broadcasting hypersensitivity to
nuance and hurt, crowding the intimacy of others, because I am out of
rhythm and rhyme, swept up in the crescendo of a desperate stand
against falling worlds, one more David without a sling or a stone, a
psalmist's heart in the path of giants, dancing in a loin cloth to a
song only I hear, a clanging sword in my head, an incantation of
doubt chanted against a day of faith.
I am the
musical strains of an urban night's booze-can rock band driving home
the bleak reality of humanity's common loneliness; I am the memory of
loon orchestras and percussive campfires crackling naked in the
rippling sunset waters swirling about my ears to the sounds of
sinking Titanics and crying Kumbayas.
I am the
companion of balladeers in a chamber of ghosts and in whose company I
have no voice articulate enough to explain the oddities of the space
in which I exist: I am a house party at dawn, the last bars in the
last song of an encore, a sun rise walk on an empty beach,
distillates of bird calls in the coming dawn of harms' way or help's
rescue.
I am a
whisper of singers aching the traces of weeping, strung-out like
laundry on wonders.
I am the
offspring of lyric fragments and broken melodies, brother to a hop,
skip and a jump. I am married to a torch song and father of a
roundelay. I am the do re me. You can be the fa so la ti, but only if
you wanna be. Only if you wanna...
