I listen to Gershwin
to move outside my
self – the consequence
of loving music
but tiring of words:
my words, your words,
the neighbor’s words,
the words of strangers
on the street and
in the bars.
The chatter
is just too goddamn
much at times, and
I need the silence
that can only exist
between notes
unencumbered by
by the human voice (This,
I suspect, is why I
have no ear for opera.)
The words, they
wear me out – it’s all
so imprecise, so crude,
so fucking inefficient
to explain what goes on
when I close my eyes
and wait for those moments
of absolute silence
between tones; because
even deft fingers
can only move so fast
over a keyboard. And there is
no art without that slowness – the tension
that is proof of the singular touch –
and
there is no silence so precise
no words so precise
as that moment
when the words roll back
and all that remains
is a pattern that approaches
pure language
without the weight
of one more person
abusing it so
inefficiently.