Draft 4

July 26, 2009

Some people hear words.
Some people hear sounds.
Someone speaks, an orchestra plays.
A dust cart sweeps, a choir raves.

Some people hear music
in sentences, music
in recipes,
music in prayers.

And he is sitting in a bar
in the middle of the night
hunched over a keyboard,
knuckles white.

And words are keys on a pianos face.
Words are there in the falling rain.
Words are just sounds.

A women walking, is a saxophone
A piano playing is a tiny home
with the moon like a bone
and the sky like lingerie.

A nine bar blues
is a word like sex
repeated,
insistantly

And a riff is a dream
you can pack in a chest.
A score is sheet
pulled over a bed.

And the music has words.

A congo is chanting a name.
A trumpet is scatting a phrase.
A cello’s describing the shape of a neck
A saxophone’s saying it feels like a wreck

He’s describing the sound of a gin
describing the sound
of a women who’s watching.

Some people hear words.
Some people hear sounds.

And they hang in the dark.
And the night sings alone.

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