Much like my own twelve string, I play the words

in such a manner makes me believe I might

need a keyboard to tell my story,

give me the rhythm to generate a mood,

the rhyme to suggest a setting sublime,

we all have our own worlds we like to dream,

looked outside tonight into a moonlit sky,

as ordinary as that, nothing peculiar,

deep, distanced, decimated disorder.

I like to laugh out loud without formulating

words, like my ancestors would have

not knowing how to speak their way

out of conflict, instead ale and fists,

and broken teeth with puffy eyes,

and smiles all around afterward.

At least that’s the way Id like to believe,

the story goes while I play my keys.