to be open here in the light is a sacrifice of possibilities for

the surety of impossibilities.

to write is always some sort of suicide.

and I resent it.

but I love it.

 

 

Dead man playing

I’ve been learning how to communicate with the dead.

The eyes of the dead never look at you, they grab your kimono and move it when you’re not looking

or they play a familiar song on your piano when everyone’s asleep but you

leaving you to question if it’s them that you heard- was it just the cat after all?

It’s never you talking to the dead,
it’s always just the waiting for them to perform some sign that you will be unable to dismiss or accept

to practice this language is to walk toward a voice that never gets any closer

and shifts directions with the wind

A study of the musician

A Study of the Musician:

The thing that measures and the thing that is measured are from his same secret world

An angel’s wing span is measured by music’s metric system

A smooth arch shapes the top of each wing and the wings grow outward with each note where

sound measures the periphery of what has been held in and is finally letting go.

His thin frame leans over the piano keys, the eyes focus on what is visible only for the fingers,

and the fingers tell the heart where to play

The shoulder blades are the sun drenched wings lifting for flight in a crescendo,

the core of the man has transcended, has gone out over the roofs and trees

in a place where time does not exists and there is only music in which timing is everything

 
J. Ann.