Reads in mathematical measures;
drums establish a four-four, six-four presence
that he feels but could never quite control –

But the musician tries nonetheless,
in lyrics that change from

language to language or
emotion to emotion but

They all say the same thing anyway.
My heart slept – woe is me, it wakeneth.

With the bitter pen clasped
in the never-innocent hand
of a musician,

stained notebook,
and a guitar and a heart.

But he takes the stage, and every note
of that barrier between the musician’s heart and the musician’s mouth is shattered.
Crowds building up in resolute detachment to a crack of vulnerability,
like a distant car wreck you see seconds before you hear
two strangers making sudden acquaintance.

And the crash echoes in the chambers

of the musician’s                   heart:

                          everyone’s

voices dancing through waves of
six strings, chanting, We don’t want to be saved,
We don’t want to be saved.

We just want to be heard.