21 September, 2009

Retreat into the Poem

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.