music

i gently twirled my littlest finger

around a single string of his heart

then plucked it like a violin

sure enough

music

like an old classic stashed away

backstage at an art house all these years

he says no sound comes

from that silly thing

sure

of course

but did I ever mention, in all my ramblings,

how I’d always wanted to be

a musician of all arts

more than any

because there is all this time in composition

but then only a single moment

when the keys or strings

and the fingers and the feet

and body and eyes and mind

the movements so intentional

let go and work together

for just this moment to be

music

does any of it mean anything?

is any of it real?

his mind expands, my god,

a surreal maze of paths twist into

intricacies and grace with just a glance,

without calculation, just escape,

like a fire burning that made its way

over the highway, into the brush

then took off in every direction

devouring the landscape

as though the masterpiece for

symphonies and orchestras

that will never make a sound

my fingers trail along the words

in secrecy

through the terrain of volumes,

an encyclopedic tongue speaking in rhymths

swelling like an ocean of syllables, but

my god, my god, my god

don’t you see in this dictum there is

the hieroglyphics of

music!