I’ve played this keyboard like a piano, hitting the high notes, exes and ohs, because I was so over baritone.
I’ve arranged words across midnight monitors like sheet music, compositions for lovelorns and lunatics, the armchair politics of dying alone wearing rose-coloured headphones.
Yeah, these songs are my jam and jive with the cynicism that wears me like a coat.
As I doted on them, they were played back to me, monster mash of polysyllable instruments.
I command whole orchestras of loose lips and in flicks of the wrist, you can hear a cassette mix,
the joyride symphony
life juxtaposed with
broken souls, poor saps
I don’t know if you want to drive a while because I’m just seeing where the interstate takes us, if any compatriots lie at its physical end.
Whimsical odes to you forming in my head, it’s the guitar solo that gets me everytime,
freebird that can’t stop
sitting on its picket fence.