I've only ever wanted to be:
an astronaut, when I watched
Tom Hanks almost die.

I've only ever wanted to be:
the president, when I tasted
the sour grapes people still have over Nixon

I've only ever wanted to be:
a chef, when i felt
the burn of the flame on my skin

I've only ever wanted to be:
a rockstar, when I heard
how Keith Richards can barely talk.

but the in-between times?
when my eyes are not
inundated with sploches,
when my ears are not
drowning in booms?

nothing.
but not that kind.
the kind Parmenidas would oggle.
the kind that is something...if not everything.
the kind like the space between the stems and the stave.
the kind that makes the doughnuts that people call pitches mean anything.
the kind that most don't notice, but would turn to psychopathia if it happened to leave.

It swims, nay, motorboats
through my veins, and finds
the tiny little
warp points, like Mario.
World 8-3. assuming
that eight is the lick
in the measure three,
that i just can't play.

bar three is rests.

rests is the slur
that something calls
nothing, when something
has nothing better
to do.