The young child watched T Monk’s ten fingers move across those black and white keys as if there were at least twenty fingers.
This is what they heard:
It’s not what you think it is, and what it is I truly don’t know, but I’ll tell you this, I’m going to dance, and that dance isn’t always going to be perfect/ Perfect is a word that doesn’t live in my house/ It doesn’t live in my lungs, or my throat, my heart nor my blood/ Perfect doesn’t rent an apartment in this city/ I’ll tell you who does or what does and why does though/ Green music that blooms in midnights and blue words spoken in hieroglyphs and moon chaos that burns down the dust beneath the paws of the lone wolf running/ Mother Goose playing the tambourine like a guitar and men who stumble like ballet/ A fall, a fall, a great big fall where I land at the very bottom of the very pit of the very last well in the dark night of the soul and see that what is in front of me is a world where the sun hasn’t even risen—yet/ And now yet—yet is in fact a word that does rent a spot in my home/ Yet is the unfallen rain, the fire that baptises the train, the unkinetic engine/ Yet is the clouds inhaling/ And here in boxes we must break outta boxes and reveal we are in more boxes still and maybe you don’t break the box but paint it, or draw a window on a wall/ Maybe in this single-story box you make the stairs to remind you of the where that you have not yet figured how to walk to/ Yet/ People talking and talking well into their lifetimes and now we’re quiet/ Kinda/ Maybe it’s the wilderness’ turn to roam the Earth again/ Maybe that’s why we made these boxes/
And this is what they realized; that they were meant to be a Poet.
©2020 by Brice Maiurro. All rights reserved.