this poem was assembled in my head over the course of a week or so. i had been thinking a lot about art, in all of its forms, and wondering about the state of our common plight. as people make things, i think it is important for us to remember why those things were made. when art loses its genuine nature and humble candor it becomes a mockery of what it is intended to be. it is no easy question of philosophy or integrity, i know, but i don't think it is too much for us all to give a level of deference to the crafts we use to make ourselves human.
when you can't escape your destination
in a story never helps
when surrounded by strangers
all voices are new
and unnerving; it's true
it's why we
talk to ourselves
it's
why i misplace
facial expressions and
save loose change
(because i don't know what i'm doing)
because i need
sounds i can count
rhythms that resound and implore me to
write a song about no one
(and play it like it's for everyone)
hum melodies and lie to myself humbly
like the headliners who are stuck at home
smile for the camera-shy and
fill the blanks with modulations
hoping to bless integrity with tactful wings
just by singing to unknowns or pestering those closest
or maybe i'll listen only
to the background noise for our
performance on strings,
(rusting hinges in all our joints)
like little dolls made to look happy
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