As if you're using a prepared piano
to explore the fringe between music and noise . . .
experiencing emotions
as you write about them . . .
Is that something you even think about? . . .
Meaning? . . .
Cavorting with unbearables? . . .
Not sure . . .
but there always seems to be less to go on
especially when films echo the wavelengths of the lost
sitting with ferals napping on stoops . . .
Confronting silence with veiled undertones? . . .
Interpreted as joy? . . .
It's the presence, yes? . . .
That's it . . . the presence . . .
Questioning the call of odysseyites
inserting pronouns to enhance palatability . . .
But didn't you say you were confused
by the struggle to make it all fit
into a nice little takeaway? . . .
OK, maybe elsewhere . . .
Forget the trends . . . rampant on the boulevards . . .
There's more to it than that . . .
the pounding at the back door, for example,
or the voided wishes of inoccupants in dilapidated storefronts . . .
It's probably worth the bother . . .
besides we all know you enjoy winging it
with the monochromatic subtones of early morning drivebys . . .
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| Leila Forés |