me and
Faulkner
sure, I
know that you are tired of hearing about it, but
most
repeat the same theme over and over again, it's
as if
they were trying to refine what seems so strange
and off
and important to them, it's done by everybody
because
everybody is of a different stripe and form
and
each must work out what is before them
over
and over again because
that is
their personal tiny miracle
their
bit of luck
like
now as like before and before I have been slowly
drinking
this fine red wine and listening to symphony after
symphony
from this black radio to my left
some
symphonies remind me of certain cities and certain rooms,
make me
realize that certain people now long dead were able to
transgress
graveyards
and
traps and cages and bones and limbs
people
who broke through with joy and madness and with
insurmountable
force
in tiny
rented rooms I was struck by miracles
and
even now after decades of listening I still am able to hear
a new
work never heard before that is totally
bright,
a fresh-blazing sun
there
are countless sub-stratas of rising surprise from the
human
firmament
music
has an expansive and endless flow of ungodly
exploration
writers
are confined to the limit of sight and feeling upon the
page
while musicians leap into unrestricted immensity
right
now it's just old Tchaikowsky moaning and groaning his
way
through symphony #5
but
it's just as good as when I first heard it
I
haven't heard one of my favorites, Eric Coates, for some time
but I
know that if I keep drinking the good red and listening
that he
will be along
there
are others, many others
and so
this is
just another poem about drinking and listening to
music
repeat,
right?
but
look at Faulkner, he not only said the same thing over and
over
but he said the same
place
so,
please, let me boost these giants of our lives
once
more: the classical composers of our time and
of
times past
it has
kept the rope from my throat
maybe
it will loosen
yours
from
"Third Lung Review" - 1992
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