We wake to off-beat trip-hop, ancient ambience invading the morning
score rising climactically toward the denouement of the dawn breaking
over breakbeats and dubstep slippers waiting at the foot of the bed.
Our showers are riddled with acid jazz and melodic trance progressing
us along, helping the rhythm take hold of heartbeat and bloodstream,
all the while we hum tweedledums and tweedledees to keep it all flowing,
growing forward and never backward, through to dayglow and afternoon tea
where we sip hesitantly at pop and R&B for mom, indie jam rock for dad,
then silence to reset the bass and drums, realign the keyboards and synthesizers
for the next day, another day of waking with frustrating rhythm and melody,
but soon as soothing as the cello station we played for you in the womb
you might remember or might not recognize without the filter of skin and fluid.
We all drift through time on our own frequencies with no novel tones,
only novel melodies, reflective rhythms of life, and a beat to live by.