In need of diverse eyes.

Analog Mother Fucker

They say his lifeline was too long
And his hands only opened palm-side down.

They say his eyes were broken windows
Revolving doors for squatters and runaways

They say his handwriting was even indecipherable
To gods, like he was never saying anything anyway.

They say he spoke in dog whistles
And his words only ever reached the strays.

They say he dressed in warning signs
Underneath broken street lights to avoid reflect.

They say he was wired
With opposite polarities
And I know his frayed finger tips would
Spark on contact with one another.
I say his words smelled just the same.

They say his scars could only be seen
Behind his eyes.
They said and they said
But never would listen.
And her hearsay became his heardsaid

They say his hands
Were too weak to kill
And I say merely,
They had fought long enough.
They say his hands
Barely had the strength
To raise a fist anymore.
And I say simply,
He stood in defiance.

Truer to himself
Than any fistagon
Truer than any fashion
Than any movement
Any idealism
Any trend
Any opposition
Any pressure,
There stood his mind.

They say he lived
Between the aisles
Of record shops
and tattoo parlors.
I say he lives in us all
Between those words we never say
And those thoughts so brief
We never knew we had.

I say
He lives
Between those bumps and grooves
Of his records no longer spun.

Listen...

Could you ever hear?

#ryanhoarty