(Bud, I took your mixing up and went in the direction of a digital story, moving the lens along the image.)
Music on the Other Side of the Wall
At 6:20,
the neighbor is at her violin again
and each string plucks at my brain
like a spatula on the frying pan.
At 6:21,
I begin to clean up this mess
of a house where I live and wait,
the paper towels absorbing all of the emotion
except desire,
which resist even reason.
I’m mindful of the music on the other side of the wall
and hear the duet within the solo,
the run of the melody high above the clouds.
At 6:22,
the spice rack beckons but I reach for the bow
and draw it slowly across the strings,
letting loose as response to her call
as I wait for the night’s concert to begin
with a stranger I have never even seen.
BTW: I pointed our school’s resident poet—a great guy who’s about 90% hippie and who gets my athletes to love poetry by the end of his week in our building—-to Bud’s blog.
He was looking for models of adults who are writing poetry too.
Never creating.
Never innovating.
Never imagining.
Never risking.
Never singing the harmonies
of the individual.
Never dreaming to be
something other than who
(they) are…
or who THEY want them to be.
(Ssshhh, ALREADY—THEY’RE listening!)
“Why won’t you just OBEY?” (they) say.
“I’d like you better if you would,” THEY say.
“You’d be more SUCCESSFUL,” (they) say.
“We’d be happier,” THEY say.
“YOU’D be happier,” (they) say.
Why don’t you come back to my place?
tra la lasagne
I’ll cook you a nice dinner!
strummin’ & hummus
And I’ll play you a song I wrote just for you!
zippity doo dahl and tandori chicken
Hey good lookin!
bee bop arugula
What you got cookin?
I immediately liked the idea of music & cooking…happens a lot at our house…but also reminded me of a “date night”…
I like that song that goes, “Hey hey good lookin’, what you got cookin?”
(Bud, I took your mixing up and went in the direction of a digital story, moving the lens along the image.)
Music on the Other Side of the Wall
At 6:20,
the neighbor is at her violin again
and each string plucks at my brain
like a spatula on the frying pan.
At 6:21,
I begin to clean up this mess
of a house where I live and wait,
the paper towels absorbing all of the emotion
except desire,
which resist even reason.
I’m mindful of the music on the other side of the wall
and hear the duet within the solo,
the run of the melody high above the clouds.
At 6:22,
the spice rack beckons but I reach for the bow
and draw it slowly across the strings,
letting loose as response to her call
as I wait for the night’s concert to begin
with a stranger I have never even seen.
Watch the video/remix: http://www.vimeo.com/10892439
I love the timeline, Kevin! Very cool indeed.
BTW: I pointed our school’s resident poet—a great guy who’s about 90% hippie and who gets my athletes to love poetry by the end of his week in our building—-to Bud’s blog.
He was looking for models of adults who are writing poetry too.
Very cool.
Bill
Automatons. Mindless automatons marching.
Trapped. in. a. role. that. I. refuse. to. PLAY.
Never creating.
Never innovating.
Never imagining.
Never risking.
Never singing the harmonies
of the individual.
Never dreaming to be
something other than who
(they) are…
or who THEY want them to be.
(Ssshhh, ALREADY—THEY’RE listening!)
“Why won’t you just OBEY?” (they) say.
“I’d like you better if you would,” THEY say.
“You’d be more SUCCESSFUL,” (they) say.
“We’d be happier,” THEY say.
“YOU’D be happier,” (they) say.
Mindless automatons marching.
“ACK!” Gagging. “ACK–GURGLE-SPIT-CHOKE-CHOKE-GURGLE-SPIT-ACK.”
“I’m allergic to boxes—and to the people
stuck inside them,” (I) say.
They’re trapped
in a role
that I
refuse
to PLAY.
gramatikly inkoreckt knowte 2 THEM: i whair mieye SOAR THUMB withe pryed.
(Mindless automatons marching.)
Why don’t you come back to my place?
tra la lasagne
I’ll cook you a nice dinner!
strummin’ & hummus
And I’ll play you a song I wrote just for you!
zippity doo dahl and tandori chicken
Hey good lookin!
bee bop arugula
What you got cookin?
I like this. It reads like you just pulled those combinations magically from the air, like you realized a cartoon in poetry.
I immediately liked the idea of music & cooking…happens a lot at our house…but also reminded me of a “date night”…
I like that song that goes, “Hey hey good lookin’, what you got cookin?”
We’re All Just Visiting
——————–
My sister used to play the violin.
She also used to visit with our Dad.
And tidy up his kitchen.
Long-expired burger meat,
Would vanish from the freezer.
Dishes from the drying rack,
Sequester them in cupboards.
Collected washed out milk-bags,
and stacks of empty nested plastic tubs,
Awaiting second use.
Moved from the kitchen counter to the bin.
My weekends, I would find him,
looking for a certain spoon or bowl.
Or some necessity.
“Oh, there it is.”
“I never know where to find things, you see,
after she has been.”
A violin. Does she still play?
A clock.
Goodbye my Dad.