Jeremy

I once knew a man named Jeremy,

I guess you could call him a musician,

That is, if you call singing and playing

Touching the hearts of standbyers

With a song a profession.

He sat open cased, wood stooled,

With a guitar covered in stickers--

I love NY, Music is Life

Splattered over his weapon of choice,

And his voice

Soothing like the ocean rushing on the sand

That would turn any Sony BMG executive into his biggest fan

Opening his lips, vibrating strings

Soft whooing rush of subway trains

All melded together,

A cyclone of sounds, nobody heard,

Except those who vulnerably turned their heads

Turned their heads away from the trains and opened their ears

To surrender,

To listen,

To listen to his “gat”, his “nine”, his weapon of chaos and order

Tenderly, caressing his way of life,

He painted a masterpiece of song,

Cool blue harmonies,

Bright red melodies,

Garden green counterpoint,

Two bodies of song, bumping and grinding to the same tune,

fitting together like two puzzle pieces

Revealing something more,

A greater picture.

Standing and listening a crowd,

eyes closed, ears opened

all smoking from the same joint of inspiration

Got’em high as the sky,

A hallucination, a drug, an addiction,

Messing with the mind and emotions

All without touching hairs on the heads,

but instead attacking their hearts and their minds.

He streamed through the verses,

Fell through the chorus,

And ebbed and flowed under the bridge,

While keeping the same push and pull rhythm in the bodies,

And the same rushing motions in the ocean,

Spreading eargasms

to all who heard his own eclectic tsunami of sound.

Then, he finally reached his last chorus,

his last measure, then his last note.

And then he stopped,

A few clings of dropped coins.

Opening his lips, vibrating strings

Soft whooing rush of subway trains

A new crowd standing and listening,

Caught insects in the web of his art.

I once knew a man named Jeremy.

He was a musician.

FOR THE <3 of IT