Because Of Wright

Lying in the center of the hardwood floor -
Eyes closed with my head underneath the slanting JBL,
That leaned to the right of our record player.
Simple raw scratches crawl from the base of my spine,
To the tip of my head;
Whether from the record or from the inebriation that had set in -
Neither mattered.
Enveloped by the arms of a subtle riff from a his keyboard -
Not only thousands of miles away,
But generations.
Bass lines travel across the floor,
Creeping across me with a force soon contrasted by the quick kisses of falling change,
And chimes from grandfather clocks that dance around the perimeter
Of my thirteen year old clouded mind.
Never truly comprehending what I had just experienced.
By the end of the recorded I had drowned.
Suffocated by harmonies,
And the passionate powerful cries that pushed the last track over the edge of my understanding.
There I lay in the aftershock;
The afterglow.

I kissed your nose before we parted

I left my shirt
On the chair next to your desk.
You said it fit the decor of your apartment.
Though my favorite -
I figured you wanted to meet again.
And if not,
Just simply have a new striped shirt.

How I Brave Bad Weather (Sorry Pete Townshend, I’m not very original.)

I’ve come full circle.
From my highest high, to my lowest low.

This re-education of our passion, though – without you -
Seems futile.
Done in desperation to find that sense of normalcy I only ever knew in LPs,

And that soothing raw scratch that comes with the vinyl you kept in your possession all this time.

Electric Ladyland dances softly from my desk,
As I spend another day -
Another album -
Alone.

A week of poetry I have yet to find the confidence to display to unknown readers.
A week of sleepless nights as each record is cleaned, placed, played, and flipped.

Hendrix whispers,
Serenades,
Calms me.
Healing my mind with incomprehensible solos.

I lost my head this week.
From this re-education.

Within a week,
Dancing through spaced out lines that spelled my name as they always had; reflecting off the compact -
To a night filled with nothing but The Wall, lighters, and bent spoons…
Followed by pillow talk after stepping over empty bottles of brandy and ungodly handfuls of “hearts” – though false our simple minds gave into the idea bringing about the expected.

I’ve come full circle.
From my lowest low, to my highest high.

Pressure

You bent my arm like the spoon in your hand,
Twisting to emphasize your point.
It had been years, though I would have never shown any fear -
I was never one to let down my bluff.

Though you deemed my front skilled,
I took the vial and lighter in my shaky hands -
Laughing at the way I slowly tapped a precise amount.
I felt 15 again.

You laughed at my contemplation,
And stupidly, I let it push me further.
Sitting back, I pulled the scarf out of my hair -
Wrapped it around my arm, and let my thumb rest on the plunger.

Reflections

Looking at myself from that angle,
Not only brought back a flood of memories
But goaded me to push the limits
I had drawn for myself years ago.

Maybe I was compensating for the lack of your presence.

One hand to my forehead,
The other grabbing for a brandy;
And I thought I could hear your twisted cackle.

Sniffles?

I followed the paths decided
And divided before me.
Assuming they knew where I was going,
More so than I ever could.

Besides if you have no where to go,
Any road is a good one.

My love.

It’s the simple and yet overwhelming desire that guides each nimble finger along the subtle curve of your neck.
Rhythmically.
Passionately.
Enamored – not just by your beauty, but by each sound I am able to manipulate from you.
Pressing myself closer -
I wrap you in my arms tightly,
Never wanting your presence to disappear.

Nine years together – though six were distanced by a conflict of interest.
Conflict of art.
At the time I deemed my wants greater than our bond -
Because the other…
Well, she seemed more versatile.

But you’ve drawn me back.
Your soul -
Your deep, never ending beauty that proudly wears the years of battle scars from our journey together.
Our life together.
I would have never known the extent of soul -
The power of understanding, patience, and loyalty.
I would have never comprehended nor knew the blues -
Without you.
Without us.
Let alone our driven epic that will only ever end with the coming of my end.

For you will live long past the fading memories of myself,
As the simply ageless beautiful muse you are.

Haiku 1

I have never been
Known as the consistent one.
Nor the sober one.

It’s been 4 years.

On long rides, you would sing and play “Freebird” just to hear me laugh again, knowing you’d never see me smile.

So many nights spent simply snuggled under patchwork quilts watching clips of Dick Cavett,
Listening to the songs and interviews of our favorite musicians.
Those who inspired us and drove us to find our niche.

Our sound.

No possessions ‘cept what survived the six hundred miles that separated us from home and our current destination.
If you could call what we came from home.
For if it’s home,
How was it so easy to leave?

You giggle as I play the only movie we owned in the VCR player left behind in this barren studio.
The sincere wave of calm that frosted over the clear coat of reality we slammed everyday.
Still, you knew how much I wanted go back “home” whenever I played Forrest Gump.
Knowing how much I wanted to be back, watching this movie with a full stomach and light heart.
Instead of on this floor with my heavy heart and light head.

Though you never ceased to fail me,
Each night we returned to this barren, abandoned studio -
Covered up with quilts made from the scraps of clothes that didn’t survive the journey, and our thrift store sleeping bag…

You always remembered to hold me,
Console me,
And call me your girl.

Boris The Bass

Yesterday I sent Boris back to your mother.
Though each strip of tape I placed across the case broke my heart again and again,
I knew he was not mine to keep.
16 years of wear, driven deep into the hand painted body and beautifully carved wooden neck.
Only a mother could have chosen this bass for her son.
Hand painted by a single mother’s working hands, and bought with money saved up after 3 months of a second job.

To finally speak to her, was to understand your past which we never delved.

Like anyone with a passion for The Who, the large spider crawling beneath your strings and across your pick ups, they see why you would name this piece of you Boris.

Yet, I know now it’s not simply your favorite song, or favorite bass line which I had assumed…

I now know your intense fear of spiders.
I learned how your mother chose this and customized this to help you grow. To push you to see past your fears as well as to understand the beauty of the eight legged creature you used to run screaming from.

I now treasure the nights looking at your black widow back piece,
And I will forever remember the intricate spider webs that trailed down your arms, traced and inked by the woman that turned the tables on your fears, and taught you how to embrace them and learn from them.

Before placing Boris’ case inside the box, that would travel the twenty-eight hundred miles ahead of it, I purchased white paint and spent my day slowly dipping brushes into paint and manipulating the lines to reflect that of your mother’s work upon the bass.

But tucked inside Boris’ strings is the picture you had given me of you, Boris, and your mother-
At your first gig.
Smiling as she fixed your mohawk and and wiped any excess eyeliner.
It’s only right for your mother and Boris’ reunion.

He was never mine to keep.

And while the last piece of him is inside a box traveling across the country,
I’ll have seventy-two hours of recorded jam sessions, and eight years of memories.