I play to an audience of one.

Well that at least is my goal after a lifetime of getting people to notice me.

Pat me on the back.

Acknowledge my talent.

Oh don’t get me wrong, I have gotten plenty of praise; in fact I have spent the last year recounting all my accomplishment of the first quarter of what I pray will be a long life.

I couldn’t let it in. I didn’t know how. Well, actually I knew how, I just didn’t believe it. Friends, and onlookers boosted my sensitive and brave dedication to my work

with a bit of smirk to the fact that I was born into the profession. I felt lucky. I felt anointed by this gran-DAME-faloon.

I was fooled. Each eye ball in the audience of the latest tap dance and sing song made more gape at how I represent the reputation and less on whether I was good or not.

I was good.

I didn’t feel it;

though I knew it to be a gift and bore a respect from me beyond accolades.

I now play to an audience of one. Since at every turn the people who’s attention that I was seeking was not seeking me. Only pressure to make good of my name. They thought me to have a leg up.

A helping hand.

A guaranteed spot as

an opener at the jazz club or apple fest. Not without an instrument or a voice. What I do is geek food and not fit for my image to the local fame those boys laid down for me to walk through.

I stopped inviting.

Really begging.

To show up to the hobby mic, open and raw would go against all the sacrifice that under the radar paved way.

I thought it was me.

I tried not to care much because I had friends, lovers and an eclectic crew lost on the same path. Pretending I’m not bothered and they don’t know what they are missing mantra.

I must play to an audience of one. Daddy is not coming and the rest follow suit. I am just sad that I wasted time wishing and wanting, like I had a choice. I was born into it.

Success come

to those who bow down and impress him off the throne.

Too busy.

Too legit with a line of people at the door ready to love me for it’s shear relation.

Good enough for me. I tell myself, thinking I’m not bothered yet necessary to keep it going. A badge of admiration I was set my pride upon, now is my greatest regret. But what could I do.

To think

otherwise is to be a disgrace and nobody wants that. I just wanted a piece. My part of the fun. My birthright that I couldn’t escape if I wanted too. Instrument placed in my hand out the canal and no child dares to defy it. Luckily I loved it.

I loved them more.

See me. Not ever.

so

I stopped inviting.

Really begging.

I got what I needed. I have the DNA and I don’t like dive bars or cover bands much anyway, so no skin off…. she can fill in the rest. That’s if you haven’t heard already. Another disappointment but two out of four ain’t bad. Well, one out of four, though

she still invited.

Really begs.

They are a better bet anyway. Instruments and amplifiers are the only acceptable form to repel the geeks. Microphone, open and raw never counts in the display world.

I play to an audience of one.

Well trying. Praying Really.

I stopped inviting and it saved me.

dust to dust

horn to horn

A song for the geeks and the gift to me

the audience

beg I

Won.

If I were a boy

I would have no feeling to make me weak and hurt myself in awkward silence

If I were a Dad

I would hide all the pain to compete with those who use anger propped up to authority

If I were a male

I would hide the wound covered in a “what’s wrong with you”

If I were Hurt

my feelings be invalid and forced to the streets in government protest

If I were a boy

I would pride my work and change the world with a pretty girl by my side to host the tenderness

If I were a Dad

I would preach what is right making all stone armies the channel for worthiness

If I were a Male

I would sit tight until retirement and bathe in making it through too much lady energy

If I were Hurt

I would smash my tonka trucks and bully my sisters to, not be perfectly behaved; like them

If I were a Human

I would allow men to be men and woman to be woman

If I were uplifted

I would stop judging ambition riding on a motivation built on fear hidden

If I were real

I would believe that equality is not a melding of minds

but a meeting of compromise

If I were healed

I would put rage in the moment of seeing us and remove the gun that carries it

If I were advanced

I would stop convincing men to be woman and woman to be men

If I were a teacher

I would reject the status quotient despite the critical backlash

If I were an earthling

I would let go of the posture of I don’t need nobody and god will reward me in the afterlife

If I were a Parent

I would repattern myself first before raining on the parade of the chosen people

smashing tonka trucks

as boys must

and

keeping her elbows off the table like a lady

in waiting

for Hurt

Male.

have you cried today

I don’t trust a man who doesn’t cry often and by themselves

Did you cry this week

I don’t trust a doctor that places crying as a symptom of

Medicate me only

Did you cry this year

I don’t trust a woman that use tears in a ladies locker but bucks up at the office

Have you held someone who was crying yesterday

I don’t trust a teacher who plans a difficult future child at the site of

Natural emotions

Push down to only the few

Leaders and movie stars

Kids

Bratty kids

Uncomfortable kids

And unstable woman

A girly man

Have you cried today

I don’t trust a world

That does

not hug

A cry

Natural emotions

I don’t trust a family that makes it

Dry

Thug don’t cry

Energy

In

Motion

Cry baby

Cry

Today

Yesterday and tomorrow

Hit the road Jack placing your thumb up and legs crossed packing a whopping life that left so young.

I can’t wait to pick up your book again and read it halfway through along with all the others on the shelf that I have been meaning to get back to.

The comfort of letting it linger and knowing I have all the time in the world to find out how the story ends has been an anchor of contrast to the rush that was my constant chaos.

Each sentence pulls out of me what Alan Watts paints but in a picture I can more easily recognize.

I can see his tone in your words and the depth of thought which goes into every piece of jazz.

The influence can’t help but rub my skin lifting the matching energy from my own pocket of dwelling questions put to paper.

Still the soundtrack in the car and not even worth pretending.

Multiple dimensions in an instant of 100 or so pages and a 20 minute set.

A guru down to earth with mud and dust in the pig pen wrestling with fate.

An outside view

aware experience

no difference to the mundane transactions

but

butt

catching us off guard in non sequesters

making you think

not

too hard

but

butt

caging it in the mind to unravel a puzzle that can’t be explained.

On the road Jack

at the rest stop

chewing on sugar cane in the wrong neighborhood

hoping to catch a ride to the next

with no destination

but

butt

the quest.

Clink ta

Cheers do you know what makes me cry

Bottoms up

Jolly good fellow how is your heart

Not thinking about tomorrow

drinking whiskey to what is your favorite song

Caroline my sweet la da da

Shots all around and I am so sorry to hear of your loss

Happy Hr with the ones that know your tender rage

Terror hour with those who grin to an invisible stage

Clink

Cheers

Ta

Meet me at

Happy

Hours