Originally posted 10-26-2011.

Maestro, play on

In the hands of a virtuoso
even a decayed instrument,
ignored for years, attic-bound,
can make a music strong enough
to bend walls.

Maestro, my maestro, play on 

I don’t claim the title for myself 
but my age being its own reward
and punishment at once,
I live toward the words — maestro, virtuoso  — 
as if they were mine to use.

Virtuoso, I am aficionado
Maestro, I am waiting 

What do I call myself now
when, with my instrument
all but played out,
I choose to seek clarity
by using a single string?

Ossessionato
I am obsessed with the hunt
Maestro
I am forsaken

I’ve been told
that nothing made on the single string
is performable,
but here I find myself committed to the single string,
facing an audience
who expects performance.

Maestro, I am the impression of you only
Aficionado
Ossessionato

In command of the single note.
In command of the silence around it.  

Can one perform silence?  

On stage, now, I do nothing,
yet the audience
expects something;  
but what could possibly replace 
the joy of doing 
this, just this, only this, only
this one pure thing?

Maestro, I am aficionado
But I am no virtuoso
and I cannot stop this

though I would not stop this
even if I could