NEEDLING

Was at the Lounge having a beer and working on part of a long poem I want to have done by the end of the week. The following piece of mumbo jumbo might not seem like much to most people, but it's been around on my desk for quite some time now, and it's about time for me to get it out of my hair. Anyway, working on the following poem, whether or not it's any good or worth the time I've spent on it, is better than going through the day feeling sorry for myself. If you have something to say, feel free.


THE HERO

It's a grand piano the hero
macho man lost his violins
the cellos
matter fact the entire string section
left him
stopped following him hours ago.

The brass section
they were never really with him
they were around
but were too cool too hip
and hit dodge at one point.

That's all we know.

The piano is alone
the city is dark
the street lights are out
the cars are asleep
the kids with nothing to do
except hang out smoking
looking cool
and give you tough looks
that go nowhere
have gone to bed already.

We're talking no music
except for occasional high pitched keys
then low pitched by themselves
in a cordless harmony.

The melody is gone.
A touch maybe a kiss
pushes a potential melody
tingeing upon silence
going off on a fringe
like a bubbly tangent lost in an endless vacuum.

Having missed or forgotten
or both
where the artery was
which way arrows point you in the wrong direction
it's maybe a melody
          one which fits nowhere anymore.
…

          The music burns for the melody…

          Flirts somewhat like caresses enjoying the hair on your arm
or drops falling one at a time on the skin unaware…

          On sweating hips, drops play themselves quietly evasive
from one end to the other
          a very slow leak of boiling-hot oil…

          A melody which peeks... pokes... picks fun...

          A melody which isn’t a melody at all
till time has passed
till notes are dropped, stacked
tossed so far apart
that it took that long to hear
          this is the melody accumulated.

…

Slow naked keys touch themselves
somewhat introverted
they uncover shy messages
compressed within each other
wooden and splintery.

It took hours to hear
where the messages might be hidden
like notes climbing on slow scales
never quite reaching the top
before falling back down like a passive rollercoaster
finding a little more melody on each climb.

The hero moans
crouched down on four feet
barely hanging on to the music sheets.

Faster, he thinks, higher
he wants to go faster and higher faster.

He wants to play the melody to its end
to get it over with
and done for
          now that he’s found the edge…

But the melody etches on one damn note at a time.
The drops keep the same pace like tick tack.
The hands pull one hair out
                    then another one later.

…

It's a grand piano the hero
macho man lost his violins
the cellos
matter fact the entire string section
left him
stopped following him hours ago.

The hero is alone.