Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

let us create a symphony, shall we?
you play winds, i'll play brass,
we will share percussion as rhythms pass,
keyboard tinks and blinks of eyes with a fast
admiration of arpeggio – let us go
to seat ourselves behind the rows
of willow branched echoes, autumn
darted amid a shadow image.
you play the the blows
i'll tow the ride by a melody line,
my stallion, saddled
by leather ideas
and mane-
lined verse.

tone deaf and can't cary a tune, all ways taping my feet to a different drummer, I can only remember hearing music in a dream one time, but I think i can lip sink a melody when someone else fiddles, I wish I could get put some music here but just the clunk of unrythmic words marching left to write across a white field.

time the only way I can think of it is as a melody, and I don't have any words for that

spontaneous unrelated ramble just did not like to see that "zero"

my symphonics were immaculate
the arrangements perfect and the
orchestration laid like a quilt intact
brave in its movements and resonant
every ambitious instrument in its place
accelerando then retardando, the clock
of perfect averages led by one baton.

there are not many men
who could orchestrate
my rhythms, not many men
who could synchronize
my beat, not many men
who could harmonize
my melodies with adaggio
expressions
or neat idyllic phrases
or repeats of an unnotated
score

but the more
i hear your accompaniment,
the more i know there are
not many men who know
what music is for
or how to bend
a note to a more
distinctive tone.

you are one of the not many.
i'd rather resonate
with your crescendo
than any
other.

let's create a symphony,
brother.

Beautiful Music


I was sitting like a conductor in the middle of the bar
and the orchestra was arrayed like glimmering bottles
the liqueurs to the right and the clear spirits to the left
the bass tones of the bourbon and the vodka transparent
as a clarinet, the B&B bassoon and oboe brandy
in sections ready and tuned and colored.

Then she walked in.
Her dress was tight as a tympani tequila
Her neckline was solo that I could see the tops of her whole notes.
the concert master played A on his tiny violin
and I asked her what she wanted to drink
and in what tempo?

I tapped my baton on the bar
and we began to play the score
what do you do?
and what do you drive?
and what do you want?
who do you love? And suddenly
it's clear as gin or peppermint schnapps
or a French horn in the distance
muffled and thick as Dramboui

She gave me her phone number,
adagio in Irish coffee.

write me a song.............

and let's hear this one again

such an explosion... the vibe of the vibe
back in the ancient times of the year 2004
doreen and Lrod makin' music
ears for the years, tears for fears
tone of the bone
jammin like a salmon, shade was made
under the bongo bongo tree
by the quiver river
and here I am far into the future
diggin' it like yesterday
comfortable yet longing for more
reach out and touch someone
massage their heart, but don't forget
to put it back where you found it
'cause I can get so lost some nights
reading the past, reading the passed
reading tea leafs, heart on my sleeve
be bop hi-top iggy pop call a cop
keep the squares in lockup
so I can pass the cup

the course is set
we must fulfill myself
a sinner I was born
A sinner I shall die
but my truth is not dependent
i am but everything within nothing
I see you and my truth expounds
help me become myself
a flower within the concrete

thirteen years ago the groove
was set down and tied with thread
and it's still here preserved in this great running marathon
step after step
voice after voice, some gone
but not really
They Are Here and elsewhere
we need only seek their counsel
Dino, Mr. Poet, Clay
Lightning Rod still electrifies
two supremely beautiful people
who happened to also be creative

13 years? Oh my God!
Where did the time go?
A crescendo, then applause,
and afterward the fading tune.
13 years have disappeared
too soon.

blink