I Say Nothing, But Feel Everything

… like rebellious, semi-intellectuals with midnight cravings for subconscious trips in places Hendrix, Morrison, and Kerouac had explored.

We’d bust our asses all week making paper for this.

Sitting on velvet cushions inside a smoke-filled room, we’d jazz to the piano man who’d stay on-stage 15-minutes longer.

And, like clockwise, when substance settled, he’d turn to his left and watch me – high, hair covering half of my face – and observed my lonely eyes scanning the corners of the room, searching for some form of light.

Bruises, violet. Scars, magenta. Cries, shooting among periwinkle stars.

“Set of seven brights…” We’d jive to the morning star.

Recovering, jittering bodies swaying in indoor hammocks.

I continued scatting, writing, writing, scatting, and writing some more; a waif-like muse of sunset with amazon cravings.

We’d drift, drift, drift away to vexing, virgin, vocal lullabies.

And, wake up hours later, swaying, staring at the sky; contemplating jazz and epitomizing Ginsberg’s HOWL.

I say nothing, but feel everything.