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Stranger Writing in Harmony

Updated: Jan 18, 2020

It is a strange thing to write in harmony.

Twin pens poised,

Scratching away at syncopated counterpoints.

But to strum or sing or beat a rhythm


That is not a strange thing.

That is the point. That is the defiant song

against still life.

Call to others to listen and experience,

Join and participate,


Become one with song,

Echo the great moment

And once again

Hold it amongst ourselves for as long

As we can,

For such rebellions, such playful rejoicing,

Should not die.

Sound fills.

Sound breathes.

Sound embodies.

But to write is to dissect, to disarticulate.

Knowledge comes by the cut.

To put subject first

Then separate

From object.

Sight extends,

Exacting the subtle knife.

Remove and reflect

In controlled isolation.

Distance the one from the all,

Cling righteously to a point
 of view,

Stranger from nowhere,

And decline the enchantment of communion.

Sight is singular,

Diminishing to incidents

Because of it.

Sight cuts.

Sight separates.

Sight withdraws.

Sensory reductions, cloistered imaginations,

mechanized brides, chemical grooms,

We refute and collapse, all and one,

in that all too persistent vanishing point.

And you lose us in the periphery.

What would sound say of periphery?

Is it stranger to write in harmony?

Twinned pens synchronized,

Scratching only a promise of consummation,

Intimate tastes displayed only to abstraction.

I resent your promise,

I miss your presence.


I would love to hear your song and join in dance.


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