Abstract Sound
I hear
things sometimes,
polluted sounds,
bumbling
echoes of
muted wet fingers
touch-touch-touching
scrape-scrape-scraping
-scratching
an itch
that I’ll
hear for hours.
Corrugated
waves
-onward
-inward
penetrating
every memory.
They
leave nothing…
no-nothing-none
-no-no-no
happy places left.
Thud! Thud!
Crash! Crash!
Again! Again!
Bad jazz
musicians
with bad
intentions.
They
keep me
down
sometimes.
The
floor rug scratches my skin.
The
sounds
make
me look
at that
inviting
rope over there
¡Amoré!
Ah! It’s
tied so neat!
We tried
everything to
silence
the abstract
sounds.
One man,
with the pale lizard face,
gave me blue round pills.
He said
they were filled with hope.
Another
man, dapper and tall,
tried talking me down from the propitious
edge.
He said
that it would get easier in time.
A woman,
with the dress of the birds,
tried to soak me in God’s Power.
She
said the Angels would come.
But, Alas!
Désespoir.
All failed to quiet
the abstract sound.
There was no hope in
the man’s little blue pills.
No.
It truly never got
easier in time.
No.
The Angels…they came…
but none survived.
No.
There is no exit,
no escape
from the sounds.
I am just a man in
An empty auditorium,
staring at the
vacant chairs and music stands,
uncontrollably
conducting
-Oh Yes!
I am conducting
my own
beautiful,
abstract symphony.
