debussy was
an artist first
and a musician second
beyond his successive notes
his scores allow you to stroll along your own thoughts
ruminate and pick the flowers—
so abundant that you can pick what you like,
one head replaced by another.
the head that made the neighbors call the police past midnight.
the raw intellect that drew me closer and closer to him,
inducing jealousy in even a couple that had it all
if only he loved his woman
and lived to express it.
what does it mean to distort your reality?
what parts of your life can you italicize and embolden?
here’s my secret:
there is no such thing as a reality better or worse
only different
when I sit in a cell
when I see delusional platforms to jump out of a storied building
when guys on the unit touch my back
it’s still the same voice, my voice,
ringing ringing ringing
and to my relief,
no one picks up
my rally cry to a million people who don’t exist