The Looking Glass

August 1, 2010

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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