I am gifted on the piano
So you might say –
A seasoned musician, a talented virtuoso
With miraculous fingers –
But, you must understand, I’m actually no pianist at all
But a painter.
These keys are my palette, their notes my paint,
And the colors parade as I plink, never faint,
Always vibrant when dancing
Sewing the backs of my eyelids
With threads that defy description in
Otherworldly patterns and godly shades
Until my eyes burst open
And hues wash across the crowd
As an expertly knit blanket of sound –
Then, my mind is lost
In this synesthesiac ecstacy –
Weaving on my bench I knit a cosmos
Where eye and ear are one
And the audience is myself, but multiplied,
Varied as an A from an A-flat and an F from an E-sharp
Or Green from White and Purple from Violet –
Round and round, schizophrenic critics we, bobbing to that musical canvas,
My nimble fingers leading the conductor’s paintbrush
Which also happens to be myself, playing a guitar
Bound by boar-hair bristles
That produce a soft, powerful vibration
To clash with the business of the piano
keys
As drums bounce for one side, then the other,
Miniature canvases that control their own beats with their own
pedal
Designed to speed up the painting, not prolong the sound,
Thus enhancing the chaos rather than driving it to frustration
Until TING!
The triangle.
The three points of our complex,
Our all-encompassing,
Our contradicting waves,
Broken down to simplistic harmony –
Silencer of everything with its calming shade of clear.
Morning's Early Dark 