watching you with star burned eyes,
i wanted to laugh,
i could have cried contemplating who you are.

//feeling jazz beats, frequency pulse sample bow echo repeat repeats//

and all the poetry of an aural experience surrounds
you. and you’ll clench your fists — in knowing you’ll
forget this — unless you hold the power to look into
the machine itself — and wander through the corridors
of a vibrating dynamo. knowing that at some point,
you should have been doing it all along — that it’s
been calling you forever — across every street corner
and headphone alley.

clandestine fevers. a fever with influence. do you
take it upon yourself to write the symphonies, knowing
that for hundreds of years, there will have been
someone who’s done it better. at the same time knowing
— wanting —
to see what you look like in the fever of music.
input — output — 0-100 scale
curiosities. what makes a fever wither? faster than
its fathers too. a writer writes with phonic delights
but pure data’s not for me.