the piano plays itself. it’s
programmed—to play beautiful music. the bars are empty. the piano is playing. a
foreign woman just entered the one bar. she’s a small creature—filled with enthusiasm,
i happened to affect the zone. just of age. a tale some might tell. but nothing
came of it—accept watching rawness—become humble, shifting, trying to locate a
space. are you running to or from yourself? many are holding their position—neither
running in either direction. many are thwart inside, rummaging inside, catching
pace outside—a little behind—just in time. there’s virtue in not knowing—in not
seeing—if it’s legit; the bosky mind—the phone-house—the noble novice. most
aren’t in this section, more sewn into maturity, causing the tides to ebb back
and forth. so ghostly its accusation—so critical the theatrics—so many forces
in a small universe.
in reality, one must inhale breath—to
release breath.
just a pail of waterweeds—just doctrine
with error in it—just a gumdrop of love.
emotions have a vug in them—a cavity,
a hole—something scaring us, scarring the deeper blues, awakening marionettes
and puppeteers.
