12.19.13

Trumpeter playing beautifully at Civic Center Bart

     They hurry along the corridor, their shoes with heels that hammer the cold white marble, the swift beat echoing down at a runner's pace.  With shut mouths, and eyes focused on thought A and Thought B, who can stand still and watch for their children?  In hostile laughing teams they come, carried along by fluffy clouds of youth.  The stench snakes up their nostrils, into their sinuses, but they cannot smell anything but the sound of their own entertainments.  Scents of soldering rubber wrapped wire.  Glass panes shield their eyes from the sight.  Notes made of plastic bury their ears underground, where minds filled with culture's song dress and groom.  Whoever lords it over them lies died, layer upon layer they stand straight and tall atop their chalky bones.  Layers of quiet glares muffle the sound of the trumpeter who plays in solitude, with eyes screwed into the floor and feeling every subtle difference in gait and hunch and paw.  His music pressed aside and back into the walls.
     Hears one, lifts into the ears, yet sees the other, plummeting from the sky.  Turns to look because he feels the sliding of despair cut undertoe, again.  Cranes the neck, yet cannot see, yet cannot fix the gaze on understood moments. Peels all asphalt up between the seat facing ahead and that facing behind.  Locks this thing, pins down that, knowing they can be real.  But what is most cherished, what is most precious and true, suddenly fades away and vanished into itself.  Try to hear a beating heart or place a finger on its soft pulse, you'll see into the void of ego love.  A man plays beautiful song, a man falls from the sky.