Is music sex?
And is sex love?

See, I am charged; I am impassioned.
I’ve an energy, this channel.
Still, I have an age to me
you may not live to know-

I may be set ablaze, but I’m old,
at least inside my soul.

I’ve a sadness,
an emptiness,
but it isn’t that my eyes are vacant.

No, emptiness isn’t a hole; it’s a mass.
It has heaviness, and it has weight;
It has substance.
And fingernails!

It clings to the walls of my heart, just like staples
that puncture your chest just to get your scarred ribcage
to hear its beaten voice.

This curtain covers my soul like a cloak,
a black, putrid
oil rag.

They imagine a lack, so they toss in their trinkets
like popcorn in hopes that they’ll fill me right up,
but they never see the emptiness;
they never see a need for replacement-

Their kernels catapult
but never help.
They just miss my marrow
and tug at the curtain,
obeying gravity.

And all you can hear
is the sound of those fingernails
screeching against
my spirit’s chalkboard,
refusing to just
let go.

No, my eyes don’t light a vacant sign.

These eyes, in fact,
were the first thing that drew her attention here to me.

(See, I am charged; I am impassioned.
I’ve an energy, this channel.
Still, I have an age to me
you may not live to know-

I may be set ablaze, but I’m old,
at least inside my soul.

I’ve a sadness,
an emptiness,
but it isn’t that my eyes are vacant.)

I drank the drama of theatre in;
I reveled in the sweet absorption.
She drowned in my gaze as I fueled my addiction
to art.

I played
John the Baptist, and
I once played Judas.
I wore any role just to
try to get through this.

She thought it was pretty,
or I was?

Stupid girl.

The curtain closed at last on Godspell.

Wretched, magic, theatre world
where shows will flaunt their skill to simply
end…

Shows tease me and taunt me with empty hope,
but it’s better than none, and it’s kinda like
we’ve got a bit in common…
emptiness.

(No, emptiness isn’t a hole; it’s a mass.
It has heaviness, and it has weight;
It has substance.
And fingernails!

It clings to the walls of my heart, just like staples
that puncture your chest just to get your scarred ribcage
to hear its beaten voice.

This curtain covers my soul like a cloak,
a black, putrid
oil rag.)

We’re liars, but we’re
friends.

To the end?
Of the show at least.

Shows up and leave.

This act is done,
so its me and the music again.

…That piano.
I sit in his lap, even though we’re in public,
and I let both his black
and his white keys talk
as I touch them.

I sing,

“I’m your biggest fan,
I’ll follow you until you love me,
papa-
paparazzi…”

I finish my tune, and she blurts out my name-
both my first and my last to make up for the fact
that she doesn’t know my middle.
She says,
“Boy, you are my
hero!”

…Girl, like, all I did
was play the piano?

…Hero.

Paparazzi…

Yes,
indeed.

(They imagine a lack, so they toss in their trinkets
like popcorn in hopes that they’ll fill me right up,
but they never see the emptiness;
they never see a need for replacement.

Their kernels catapult
but never help.
They just miss my marrow
and tug at the curtain,
obeying gravity.

And all you can hear
is the sound of those fingernails
screeching against
my spirit’s chalkboard,
refusing to just
let go.

No, my eyes don’t light a vacant sign.

These eyes, in fact,
were the first thing that drew
her attention
here
to me.)