In a world full of rocks
there's a roll full of film
filled with photographs-
squares- like the infamous cube
To remind her that even colors
get oddly mixed up sometimes.

Blue walls
where memories rest.
And she sees,
in the eyes of John Lennon,
Circles.
And she imagines, when she listens to
The Question...
what would it feel like
to walk through a kaleidoscope?

The pond.
It knows her soul
desire to fall in love with love itself.
Her energy is art,
but there is no use for picture frames
to restrict the flow of such creation
through solely just a window with purpose
to dream, to wonder-wander
time to time.

She walks
from one star to the next-
out of her mind,
Making music of her own.
And I look up from the surface
to see her presence on that lucky rock-
Planting flowers on the moon.

and the first thing she can't remember
is the difference between sleep on the floor
and sleep through the static.
and the last thing she remembers
is the thought of music
and how different it may sound upon the surface
of the moon.

cigarette smoke mixed with daydreams
while she walks across Abbey Road
into the center of the city
that she wishes knew her all too well,
but clock towers question
her timing too.
"the loveliest faces appear out of the
blue."
she often ponders the pendulum
and the consequence of her freedom
movement from place to place
person to person.
out of the blue.

at exactly meantime,
she walks alone
until she enters the telephone booth
that takes her into
a blue world:
unlike any other landscape
painted by Van Gogh himself.

It's the final Tuesday and the window opens on its own.
I'd stay for seven Tuesdays more, but alas
I'll let it be.

if snow fell into june,
it would alter summer's state
of mind.

if salt turned to sugar,
and the oceans turned to ice,
the tides would cease-
motionless.
And nothing should move
below surface level.

if secrets were for everyone
to hear,
no one silent would be safe
from sound surrounding...
like a shot in the dark.
And no, you should never shoot the messenger,

but if wrongs turned right,
she surely shoots the messenger.
And the wars would break the ice
into the heat of the core

which would send us all into space.

And if it snowed in space
and gravity kept us all apart,
(similar to secrets)
we would float
until we fall to sleep.

if money made sense,
and i could spend it
wisely...
i think i'd buy a star myself.
And I think we'd watch it burn
from the edge of the moon.

I never hear music in my dreams.

Maybe I do, and I simply don't remember.

Awoken by the storm and sound of music
I felt instantly numb
to reality.
I fell asleep to 3 doors down.
I woke up to chasing cars,
and then in silence I returned.


I saw myself 10 years from now:
Parallel,
from a little blue mailbox across the street.

I stand in a city full of life
while a woman in a candy apple rain coat walks past.
She was talking of a movie that is now on broadway...
To a friend? Talking to herself?
I moved on. Across the street I watch. I wait. I wonder
what will happen next.
I sense a bigger picture. The frame is expanding.

Traffic fills the streets and I see her pacing back and forth.
She runs.
I move faster now with the fear of losing her. I follow,
and I guess so does the rain.

Taxis stop and go and there are noises everywhere.
The rush of the rain shocks a crowd with motion,
and they step with purpose.
I see lights now sprinting blindly through the streets
behind a girl
short of time.

Grasping the golden handle of a door
that nearly closed before me,
She entered
and
I enter
just in time for the beginning.
Red curtains open.
And there it was.

My movie come to life.
Or was it hers?

he set the drums on fire
which is what started it all.

the catalyst
for a sound that shook the earth,
so much so
that the the redwoods broke the silence
in a forest full of minds lost
lost among the falling leaves
that catch fire.
drifting toward the coast
to meet the footprints
soon to be washed away
by the force of reflection.
and the fires rage up toward the clouds
which shade the surface from the sun.
day is night and night is day
in a world that fears
live music.
and i dream about the drums so much
that i hide out in the dark room
full of pictures
that reveal moments
sensitive to the real world.

the red lights nearly blinded me
once-
as chemicals filled the atmosphere
and i escaped just in time to
watch it burn
peripherally.
i walked away and never looked back.
to return was to risk my sanity.

and i let the cds burn.
i locked the letters in a shoebox
and buried the box beneath the surface
of my time here. i used to read them too often
never to be read again, only recognized
by my own subconscious.
at a time where music reminds me, still, of an instant.

see, i am dependent on sound and color
of the drums
that distract me from surrounding,
so that i don't surrender
to the fires
that consume
so many souls in which see only red.
to be in this world full of vibrancy and passion,
expressed through the essence of art.
it is a shame to feel it burn.

i saw the drummer live years ago
and i learned how to play myself.

i'll tour on Mars instead.
i read about it yesterday,
and it appears to be red from a distance.

she stumbles into the next room.
white walls are
transparent in the aura
to the white noise.
have you ever dropped glass before?
a vase full of color
shatters slow in motion.
pieces scatter.
a shattered stillness,
like the silence in this room.

until the silence breaks
by a glass frame.
falling to the floors,
opens up into a world of color-strokes of someday.
she can hear it playing
from the house
under the streetlight flickering.
she looks into the white wall
to a life of euphoria
in a visionary moment
of interstellar picture books.
goodnight moon.
she recollects her thoughts
and leaves behind nothing
to be a part of this starry night.
and there she lives among the stars-
a muse in motion.