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Jean bound disciple

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In pressed pockets of these
tight fitting jeans
I sling a finger,
thumb actually,
into the narrow void
gesturing downward
while my eyes search the skies
for the love that has been
avoiding the
vain palpitation
ribcaged inside a chest
who’s treasure sings for you.
But these hands that slide down my sides
caress a more prominent truth…
the fact that
these hips hug
the revelation of the backbeat,
a hiccup in the bass
thrumming through black-stained
window-pain glass of the car blazing past
my passenger window,
my eyes always upward
looking away from the body
that proves to be vice to
my self-esteem.
These curves also prove loyal companion, proving that their presence
makes me champion…
you see, with each exaggerated swerve
fueled by the exhale of past performers
pushing for their next line,
my intake allows for my
polysyllabic end to static
with an ancient Italian melody
rearing, tearing out of
lips that preach a different God…
music.
I am its faithful follower
flowing over the notes
in sweet soprano
reaching heights many dream of
and when I crescendo
I take the piano with me.
While my recline
against this school chair
may seem like I am in
defiance with my hands
stuck down my pants,
but truthfully,
I am trying to capture
that song that made me a
praised disciple of the sixteenth, eight, quarter, half notes
that makes me whole.




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