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.