Music

 

do

 

Not exactly an organism, it distends

its moss on the air, overtaking 

 

the brain, growing on us. Probing our ears

with its antennae, it intervenes; 

 

we adopt its philosophy, as 

the horizon compels us to read 

 

the hillside's daubs of green according 

to the logic of its retreating gray stave. Aphids, 

 

asteroids, danger: all spelled themselves 

merely before music rose its tide

 

beneath the barnacled hull of our day's 

craft, gliding our cargo of flotsam

 

 

re

 

into harbor. An otherness

trembles into us

 

to test our pulses, a communal

endo-skeleton, a lubricant

 

for the consciousness, a house 

we wear in our ribs—while a marching

 

band dopplers more caterpillar 

verdure down the street out 

 

the window, and the outlandish

reverberations of muscular stereophonic

 

thingajobs retromegafitted into

the lemon-colored truck that 

 

 

 

mi

 

just drove by—music grows 

the anterior pair of eyes, the brave 

 

luminescence granted the worm 

to thrive in the cave. Is it a parasite: 

 

a flea leaping through the fur 

of our attention, bullying the neurons

 

with relentless partiality,

useless precision, a hair's breadth 

 

between twenty-twenty and bull's-

eye, each of us an anonymous

 

submarine volcano here solely

to gestate in our ears this species

 

 

fa

 

of locomotion. When you press

your ears together, what do you hear?

 

"As the propagation of the species 

depends on constant conflicts 

 

and periodic acts of reconciliation": 

impassioned arpeggios make demands 

 

on us: with or without us, 

music evolves. We and some repeating

 

patterns of sound currently enjoy 

a periodic act of reconciliation:

 

the ozone swells as our wriggling 

heads rush toward it; our heads 

 

 

so

 

swell, inseminated on a grassy 

crescendo; sensation ravels 

 

the notochord into its telescope 

of bone, and heaven clicks 

 

into place. Watch a rooster convulse 

his morning bombardment 

 

of kocaree: his eyes go glassy, the throat 

distends; music is 

 

a spasm. Do you feel it, too?  Music 

unshells us, unskins, each 

 

a composite of the other; we sing, 

and our predator finds us, jaws 

 

 

la

 

splayed to the perfect 

circumference of our skull, and 

 

it's time for the encore: Rare free wheeler, 

thumb-size terror, O pinch of terror 


that intensifies pleasure, risk 

at the dusky core of am, gratuitous


announcement: the orchestra bends 

its collective back to the notes, heaves

 

the day's sun to the half-measure

rest that hovers like a hawk beyond 

 

the telephone wires, fading into 

the first tendrils of the string section, a band

 

 

ti

 

of cirrus, floating our crafts on a high 

sea of raging noise that yearns 

 

to be danceable: noise sometimes

becomes music when it repeats. When—

 

just there, as the chickadee, a checkered

path of flight toward the tree

 

out the window, repeats its 

tow ta wee, counterpointing the notes 

 

of the aria singing in the shower. 

This organized excess, a failure

 

to refrain from originality, setting our

pulses in concert like a roomful

 

 

do

 

of clocks: we'd like to make ourselves

clear but there's something intriguing

 

about this impediment-to-con-

versation-making-shout, that is

 

conversation but rarely answers

our question, another swan song tapping

 

our fingers beyond our grasp. The late 

spring snow falling out  the window 

 

repeats but it isn't music, and they say each 

snowflake differs, what stubborn 

 

cacophony at the heart of cold; it looks 

like static on the radio when we close—

 

 

Close

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