why are these digital ghosts haunting us?

| | . . . | | . .x x x . .

the piano replies
and i understand

__

we were lost on an island
looking for open source safety equipment

we valorize stoicism
and have thus become
actors without empathy

\

lessons in compositions #1:
making up
the best
kinds of nonsense
whenever
&
however
i please

/

if you’re fucked up in the head — write to echo it
if bizarre things frequent you or
if nothing bizarre occurs to you,
compose beautifully ordinary moments of punctuation.
__
i sat at the computer and waited

watching you with star burned eyes,
i wanted to laugh,
i could have cried contemplating who you are.

//feeling jazz beats, frequency pulse sample bow echo repeat repeats//

and all the poetry of an aural experience surrounds
you. and you’ll clench your fists — in knowing you’ll
forget this — unless you hold the power to look into
the machine itself — and wander through the corridors
of a vibrating dynamo. knowing that at some point,
you should have been doing it all along — that it’s
been calling you forever — across every street corner
and headphone alley.

clandestine fevers. a fever with influence. do you
take it upon yourself to write the symphonies, knowing
that for hundreds of years, there will have been
someone who’s done it better. at the same time knowing
— wanting —
to see what you look like in the fever of music.
input — output — 0-100 scale
curiosities. what makes a fever wither? faster than
its fathers too. a writer writes with phonic delights
but pure data’s not for me.

don’t forget the sounds behind main sounds
john cage where do you roam?
the piano is glowing like a harboring engine.
harvesting radioactive families.
eric satie, where are you saddest?
a man squishes bugs in the future forest
across – across – across – across
the ends of the piano

i bike down the street, contemplating jazz
i bike down the street wondering
why wasn’t life always like this?
why can’t the world be this soft black and white
where the piano man is king
and the trumpet is the sun
emanating a value scale of exuberant grays
where are the happy families?
in the blind spot.
we’re in the clubs and undergrounds rooms,
fevering for you miles davis
in the coffee shop
with lights off
drinking cold espresso.
watching our ghosts fall through the floors.
when you have spend such time with the trumpet,
it starts to love you back
just you wait.
the drummer lives in his metronome
stares into the shadow world at his feet
the drummer lives in his own algorithms, chained to a loop
the trumpeter works the machine of brass and wind.
the tattooed monks chant and the piano roars
and the drums are always
boom – boom – boom
like the streets of detroit.
how do you teach your fingers…
to move like that; where is the education
or show me the addiction.
the text is a heartbeat
but what beats your heart is the trombone
sultry it slides and roams and moans,and changes
the tone in the room. and everyone stops, sucked into silence
by the outpour. kill all electric instruments.

i imagine you yoni. i imagine you as you sit in the passengers seat, writing and rewriting and tearing delicate perforated pages.
the evidence shifting at your feet with every jerk of the car and stereo
brute and tempting the way you mean what you say, poignant and without regret or stumbling breath
there was no piano playing during my tragic moments
only a faint my hum
I’ve been wondering all my life where it comes from
you can’t listen to a song and only think about
==er — .. )um.m)“ composition, chorus change and bpm >>
does the spoken story drive the unspoken
do you feel the rust of the road he’s traveled
do they parallel and reinforce each other –
does it leave you with a fever?

or make you feel like the most dishonest human being that ever was