Originally posted on 8/8/2013.
If I thought you truly loved people
for the complex, contradictory,
dense ghosts they are
and not as symbolic husks,
bullets in your slide deck
of what’s wrong with the world, then
I could love you,
my activist, my firebrand; I could love you
if you could allow all of me in.
Originally posted 10/26/2011.
Maestro
play on
It’s said that in the hands of a virtuoso even an attic-bound instrument, ignored for years,
may make music strong enough to bend walls.
Maestro
my maestro
play on
My history being its own reward and punishment at once,
I am expected to live entirely within the words maestro and virtuoso.
Virtuoso
Maestro
What do I call myself now when, my instrument all but played out,
I seek clarity in the use of a single string?
Aficionado
I am obsessed with the hunt
Maestro
I am forsaken
I’ve been told that nothing made on the single string is performable,
yet here I find myself facing an audience who expects performance.
Maestro
I am the impression of you only
Aficionado
Under command of the single best note.
In awe of the silence around it —
ossessionato
can one perform silence?
As maestro, as virtuoso. I must try.
I am no longer maestro
I am aficionado
Am no longer virtuoso
I am aficionado
The audience sits on their hands, expecting something more.
But what could replace this?
Dark Matter 