At Robin Holcomb
Brown moth frolics in stage light
above stained glass, moths are tiny birds
in scattered gestures wearing earth tones.
Playing my spine with broken nails
keeping trombone out of it for now.
Sudden as blue plastic or piano benches
upholstered moments of calm. A good man.
May the black beetles find the moonlit
sidewalk kisses remember the celloís bow
splayed into the cracks of bitter wallpaper
peeling sweet sound from a toy xylophone.
Who leaves in mid-concert?
Who arches horsehair bows over the celloís
thigh bruise, slapping a cello like that
then veer away from ordinary gardens and
common beard through which he powers a gold
trombone. Lick the plaid curtain with
your eyes as she bites off loose strands
of bow, she is a rifle that plays music,
shooting sky, echoing Monkís ghost.† Its
blue leaves a gloss on everything
even rats.† Music to beckon avatars.
Music to lean against or sleep next
to, and before it all ends
†† Iíll blow in your ear again.
written w/ Meredith A. Sedlachek
9:01 & 9:37A
@ Robin Holcomb concert
w/ Peggy Lee and Steve Moore