Updated: Jan 18
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.
But to write is to dissect, to disarticulate.
Knowledge comes by the cut.
To put subject first
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.
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.