(for the jazzers)
sound
older than the skin
I bare
this
week
improvised once
20 years
ago
and etched into acetate
skitters & traces
coring me
like
marrow
(I assume)
does bone
I know every note too well
for improvisation
having played this freezing time
& time
I found
myself old
last week
more sudden
than expected
body dripping & falling into
itself the
way I suppose
a specific
record of this song
could
but not the recording
itself
saved in vaults, servers, discs and so on
all
musicians dead
save one
the least
famous
I heard him interviewed once, seemed
a nice guy
but I don’t want
to be nice, not
now
to curse
my failings
my body
to yell about not
going quiet into that good…
not being nice is fine
but
the cursing death part,
the point,
exactly—
the
pianist
moves fingers
/
ghosts
to the right high notes
now in my
apartment
& 20 years ago
at the
same time
what was
given us on
the seventh take
of the seventh day
when the doctor
said, “
everyday on Facebook another picture pops up
of the leader of
these alive
dead men
popping
their living
dead fingers
&
sticks
across
the oxygen in my apartment
provided by
my green
greens
doing
so well
so
well I think
then again, I was never known for my thumb
the present never
was
but never not
like now
when the past
ghosts us more than
what we need
for
response
across
the alley a boy
hits a
metal can in a strange
new beat
I can’t hear
for my stereo
blaring a frozen
improvisation
skittering away the new
obscuring
the now
teaching me what
I already know more
than even the makers of the original acetate
, if the
interview is to be believed,
who moved on
moved away
creating
unto death
it was
on one level
just the
seventh take
on a session
that
paid poorly
became so very well
known but everyone
needs
sustenance
somehow
&
how many pathways
through
my nerves
flesh
furrowed
by this very beat
momentum
more
alive than I
will
soon be
or maybe am
2 comments:
Beauty.
Beauty.
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