A rework and combination of two earlier pieces…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Violet energy
of  a packed nightclub. Far
corners dim and busy.
Startled remainders of dinner crowd.
Slick aficionados,
novice
joy chasers,
mages in watchful attendance.

Then, the horns –

saxophone
asters, trumpet
roses.

The essence of horn is in blowing and blocking.

Ivory bones
of keys and
starflung bass,
the fertile underlying soil
of swift sifting drums.

The essence of string is in striking, permitting, and stopping;
this is the essence of piano as well.

Do you know the essence of the drum?
Of objects in action,
rush of shaken skin, thrumming in ear canals,
the memory of the tree blown down in the storm,
striking the ledge?

Oh, the shocked eyes
and the odd remastered ears…

Melody is a pirate rejecting unjust law.
One rebel line cabled
among many,
carrying the current.

It is a crime against the essence of sound
to call music into confinement.
There is a trial going on
and jeopardy attaches
so it goes free,
or rather there is no crime and
it is a possibility inherently alive.
Essence snapped to a bent grid, evanescent.
A moment.
Memory transferring itself from past to now-being.

Play what is needed, in thrall to essence,
the nature of the reed, the harmonic.

Under it all, the idea:

white noise does as it wishes;
all control is relinquished in the moment
of white noise,
underlying the point of struggle.

Beating shape out of raw time,
examining the sound of its bones
falling onto the hearth.

The essential call of a summary command
to call up
the only voice that is under all.

The tree crashing
to the ledge unseen crying
I exist,
I existed,
respond.

The stop at the bottom of the tumble
allows for beginning…

outside the doors
an altered few find
an opened world