Solo Of Silence Poem by gordon nosworthy

Solo Of Silence

lick your lips to moisten the reed
clear the spit valve
inhale long and deep
feel the chest bones stretch
locate the starting note
somewhere among the gang of notes
swirling in your head
launch to restructure your life
blow from various bits and pieces
scattered about your desk
the scissors for the nose hair
the tweezers for the eyebrows
the erasers for the documents
you didn't want to sign
but did all the same
because in the end
it was either you or them

adjust the mouthpiece just so
quickly swivel the neck
for ease of key access
what you did in the past
doesn't equate
to what you are now
sometimes you got lost
the alligator boat glides
through the fetid debris
a nose hound remembering
what it meant to be
somebody who stood
for something
other than adrift
base notes so quick
they run together

blow the alto harder
inhale the soft scent of lubricating oil
how to describe the swell and fall
no words reveal the urgency
no words uncover the intent
beautiful somehow yet elemental
raw scales yet altered
even though breath remains
as if for a moment what is
has become the urgency
the look what's on the other side
the overpoweringness of nothing
amazing utterly amazing there to see
but the watchers don't see it
they just clap sometimes

there are exceptional notes
they exist in some recess:
it's hard to recall but
i think i have a hero
dead now as all heroes are
seems to be the only way
to know what they are
first to be dead
then to be reflected upon
my hero didn't start out making money
just started out with a hunger
that's the beauty of real strength
passion or talent or whatever
that simply needs to out

i simply have a hero
the riffs and runs testify
there is no praise in my decision
there is no club to belong to
he is my hero for this particular flare up
we climb only the surface of mountains
that is all there is
footfall after footfall
note following note in succession
words which go all the way back
to a time before normal:
i hide in the dog-eared tavern w.c.
squatting on a worn porcelain bowl
feet off the puddles on the floor
while heavy booted police
apathetically check the flatfooted feet
showing under the stall doors for i.d.
while regaled by the nervous tittering
of those older farters
watching and waiting around a table full
of foam headed drafts and whitish pickled eggs
while brown the bouncer
quaffs a brew in the corner
under the television
where the owner has no eyes
the run takes my breath away
my fingers are connected
to some place in space

it has no beauty
other than the moment
it really means nothing
we want it to be eternal
we forget how short our forever is
order a burger and fries
see how long the moment lasts
you don't recall the servant
they don't recall the master
head back the alto squeals
then note by note the train drops
i peer out the washroom door
the accumulated grime
brown sogginess of the grubby walls
floors tables people rickety chairs
the scene before me excites
i shuffle to my table
nervously retake my seat
there is laughter at my near brush
with the law
as i chug the draft
the solo coils and rears
rushes explodes without knowing exactly where to take a knee
or look to the skies
to end without witnesses
there is no applause

Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: life,life and death
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