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4:17 pm

Appassionato

Dulcimers.  Very subtle, the strings can be.  Some instruments stand in the way you know.  Not in the way of the strings, you know that.  In the way of what’s the word?  Damn the ineffable.  It’s not about the music or the words, they mean nothing.  It’s what’s behind it.  Under it.  Turtles all the way down under it.  Get out of the way.  Stand aside sugarstick.  Not like Diogenes laying out next to his tub.  Getting a little tan.  You, Alexander, yeah you, Emperor of Everything and Nothing, you’re standing in my light.  Shoo!  Get lost wouldja.  O all sorts get in front, but laying down under the music: the bleeding and the breathingness.  Just as sure as you breathe on me now.  Fogging up the glass.  So sweet.  Keeping time, listening.  Anybody can play the music, say the words, listen to that.  Just as anybody can make love with anybody else.  You with me maybe?  Could be anybody, a knock on the door.  Maybe me.  Last check in the mirror before opening.  What perfume?  Then hands on her heaving, felt for opulent.  And so on and so when and so what.   An ordinary duet.  Laying down under that, resting itself is a whisper small. Co-ome, thou lost one.  There you are baby, welcome.  It’s me.  It’s us.  Come closer yes.  Take a little bite, let’s make a new language.  Then aching exhilarating poetry into the everything and the nothing. There’s a subtlety to the art of love, the approach for an embrace giving your beloved a gaze run liquid over over over the body with appreciation like a hymn to the allwhen.  The crashing waves like cymbals clash against the rocks and sands.  Small adjustments here and here to your lover’s  movements, oh your breath.  The tender embrace, like touching an infant.  Or with a forcefulness, a violent passion painful but just on this side of damage.  Just a touch away from harm endlessnessnessness.  The dilation of blood and of when.  That first night at Mat Dillon’s party.  Her name.  The music then, fate.  Luring.  Luring me!  Wouldn’t expect it in the least.  Her Spanishy eyes.  The smell of Peru.  That’s the life of it: that I’ll never know what to give her.  What to promise?  How to ask without words.