The Glow
waiting for the phone
the spleen
the butter bean biscuit dream
of floating through mesomorphic tones
each pulling at us
in ways unknown
flute solo.
he plays to the moon
and there’s only so many words i know
i don’t know much, see
i don’t know much of anything
but when we come together
its like
the dancing gnats
that everyone wants to swat
he knows only the rhythms of his mind
but what if one’s mind is petrified
by the bulimic tendencies
drone, drone, melodrama in his toes
he plays for a smile
rather than a glow
he plays for a style
rather than the soul
poor kid,
i wish i could teach you the nothingness i know.
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