My Dad’s Gift

Musiqua.
Earl Hines. Or Bossa Nova.
A slice of music.
Charms wrapped in cellophane. Or a blue rhythm dancing on a mahogany table.
The notes spill over from a Celtic goblet – dipped in liquer, perhaps stoli.
Drunk music.
A cut through a song. And a cultic cure for the ailing spirit.
The fierce rapture of Nada Brahma, divine damage and the retraced path to reconstruction.
The rebuilt stature from earth’s magma to the opulence of nature.
Couplets piercing a stone’s heart, left singing in the Rock Valley. Dent in Order and a mark on Time’s inner thigh.
A Hymn of heavens – supine combustion sings of a slow churning of desire in Her devout chest.
Crests and troughs.The oblivion embowering calm. And vice versa.
Distortion along the edges of a metallic razor. Stings and sings and repeats it all.
The interregnum.
Pages of Ages. Written on the gaunt faces of redolent paper. Slam Poetry and the harmony to accompany the main course of verbal rapidity.
Sound- open to interpretation.
Silence- open to relocation.
Either in lieu or in abundance of the familiar auditory metaphors and despite a kinesthetic demeanor. Music lifts me up.
Completely.