Writes “B 1” (unabridged version)
Deaf musicians play deaf music… notes on sound look like sound.
Yet in the ear’s mind slosh around unbidden, replete as cowbells in the pasty hands of the visionary.
The sound so much floats that it is air on a carpet of thought.
Bypassing actual surface sound,
Instead sticking to the forebrain like opium in a smokey
Salon filled with small talk.
Then the music stops, stopped.
Then they left an emptiness that kept on playing.
“B 2” writes itself
Dead weather,
I think the Athalia of crow’s carrion
Unwinds in my head like a stiff breeze.
Nothing comes of it but bones,
Or maybe an appetite elevated
To a shrieking chant, oratorio of
Glue on the tongue…no,
A misanthropic Gregorian defenestration
Hoping beyond all redundancy
That our sin will instill perfection
At the very moment we meet again.
Umbriate Press Poetry 