Cello More Dictator

by Jefferson Hansen

                                                                 February 2017

more to the light of

        a solitary cello bouncing

                  its warmth from the stereo

              across newspapers

            strewn about

in February it rains warm in a Northern city

       becoming ugly

             in the run-up

                to differentiation

      even the sky

                    may be guessing

a restless balance announces itself

                things come and go

      what can’t happen already did

            and gone

the leaks are wiped clean

         by standardized lies

             sometimes called accurately

cello strings recorded before I was born

           and did not hear

                   in the womb

         buzzing out

               of a tautness

                         in an organized fashion

to rule as the obdurate dictator

          less accurate than a seismograph is

                  more accurate

       depends on what you want to get done

                      wishing different

                than what has been

                     now his public

                           psychology

the weather oppresses with its one warm day

            after another

       snow shoes never

    came out of the room

                   could we up the run

             of the last gesture

                 through seeming wall

social boundaries seem not to matter to this guy

something simply agreed upon is not what could

        level and define

                                    for instance

            I imagine this at another angle

        the one gifted to me

                   by sleights of hands in an

                              enforced darkness

the challenge is the outer fortress

       in the time of resolute duty

sometimes

                without moving

      I merely stop being

              at this exact spot

a cello offers angles

           not noticed by the reporters

       it will do them no good

                  unless approached

                                  how

could this all be different worlds

        parallel universes cutting

                through one another

    the cello record living

            beyond the cellist

    yesterday’s news on the floor

    the patter of rain on windows

the future begs more warmth

           as the past ripples out

   its living

           has invaded

                     the future

the recording comes from the year

                of the Silent Spring

      was it with the movements somewhere

              in this improvisation

                      not political

            but the fear of the political

we cannot live outside nature

           but we can deflect it

                       into pockets that give us

                            the hoax

                                  of living without cost

how you come to an angle

     on the way an issue

             announces itself

             demands it be on the scene

       the edges of which

                            flutter like sheets

                                    hanging from a wire

the only dishonesty here is governing

      by psychological hang ups

            not stance and stratagem

         like shouting in the place

         of the needed tune

the fiats sometimes unimportant

       just a fling

           sometimes deadly

     wish I could see a film

           of this cellist

           the angle of wrist

                       the grimaces how tight

                   her knees cradle

                the wood

at the greasy diner this morning

      the waitress said it was a gross day

            then a kitchen worker slipped

         out the back door

                 carrying a full plastic bag

                 taking it to a dumpster I have

                     sometimes used

    I didn’t finish my bacon

            the angle of the wish

I buzzed my hair over a newspaper this morning

       gives way before other

    demands and there is no way

          back

nobody can play cello like this

         today

     cannot enter into the nerves

      of the flakes

           that was her now

a group of worlds coalescing

       into her fingers on the bow

           held according to tradition

           according to how Silent Spring

    reaches to her flesh

              her bone

                 the hum of now

         pulsing with blood and marrow

today’s cellists play what is in these newspapers

              what changes the weather dictates

     the challenge for me is

                to hear in the hollows of my torso

           this discomfort

                 instead of longing for a sealed

                        ‘now’ called

                      a recording

why I am listening to this old music

now

          synapses reach and flutter

              in the wind of the brain

                    for something sure

               some agreed fact

                        that can form a base

the birds have sung every year

      since this music was recorded

          they had no reason

                 to believe it would happen

     at the time of writing

                           of playing this cello

we dodged it

because of stories

     about the science

         percolating from voice

   to voice to typewriter

            and pen and TV

                   it may (not) happen again

to close this poem

           seems dishonest

    the newspapers will be gathered

        the recording will end

                 for now

     we live among signs

            of the end we have always

        lived amid such signs

______________________

Jefferson Hansen edits this blog.