Transcriptions
After a long walk
I transcribed myself into piano music.
All night a harpsichord
had been jangling nerves,
rattling the same baroque concerto
over and over again.
I count I-100, then start over
counting and walking,
a clockwork organ
self-winding, always
pushing a moment before it
as if time could be saved
for later use.
The morning is mellowing out.
multiple fugal states row
in and out of salty ponds,
see-through-gulls rest
on opaque waters.
A powder wigged accompanist
pinches snuff
rams it up both nostrils
turns to an invisible audience
bows, sneezes, then farts.
Tight corseted lungs flap loose,
reveal a forgotten voice in a ribcage,
sad songs come out of its catfish mouth,
then laughing monks arrive
to dine on tongue and saffron.
The keyboard is stuck in the middle
of a thought,
a thought so long
that it pants and coughs
trying to keep up with itself.
After a long walk
I lay down in the back row
of a concerto and wave weary hands
at the ceiling
conducting next words
from tissue thin scores
and unfinished endings.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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