Comfortably Numb

Autumn leaves -- 40cm x 50 cm (Oil on canvas)
with glass and gold frame

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Concerto in Solo

Between the chaos-driven-man
And the system-defined-world;
Lyrical asylums are revisited
And a litany of echoes then
Shadow the night’s trail
Until it trebles to yet

Another morrow’s path.

…

With but, his thought therein --
Voices, as always, whine their concerto.
Tendered by a series of crescendos;
till cadenza, as so much so, begin.

In dissimilar degrees of timber,
The orchestra of the self and mind
Converse -- in glut -- an audible melee
Which, whose pitch, there lays:
A speech and another,
And another still,
And another ensemble,
Whose notes all denote:

True self is not its conductor!

For such -- a symphony --
Is but an obtrusive obra;
Where scores of tonal undulation
Offer an inflection not all his own.

Inside the intimate chambers
Of once, his hollow mind,
There now, in attendance --
The players for his amusement,
Sharing bedlam among octaves;

Inner conflict within its amplifications --
Certain diverseness, seeking unification.

A seeming debate -- accompany sound bytes,
In a libretto of fragmented compositions.
While still, eavesdropping on gods and angels;
And that of what they address,
And that of what they contest.

Whereby monologues share common juncture;
A medley of intransigence staging
their performance in random fashion:

The barren pleasures of pain in baritone,

The stagnancy of rhapsody in staccato,

A lonesome being’s tenure in tenor,

Falseness of the world in falsetto,

Altering faith and dogma in alto,

The sophistical refutations
Behind the search for
Meaning in soprano;

All, but offer a boisterous opus
With but the audience, really,
Is the tone deaf self
And the mind’s -- still
Unclaimed voice.

Amid the assonance, he is serenaded;
Though, it blares not, in basso profundo.
This soulful evocation, however,
Will -- in euphony -- be the song
He ached to always hear;
Notes he’ll breathe in
At every prospect.

Answers thus, will chant in chorus
When self is finally enlightened;
Then repertoire of the true state
Will demand an ovation,
For such, is a pronouncement
Meant for static listening.

…

But, for the soloist in constant mute,
The continuance of silence --
The interlude of noise --
will, for now, renounce an encore:

much to be
Awaited

And

much to be
Applauded.

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Clown's Anthem: Look What You've Done (JET)

Click here to watch the video (It's a great song, man!)