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  • It's nothing personal....

    Service demands everything
    dedication – devotion - discipline
    nothing else before
    days – months - years
    until nothing remains

    In this cloistered solitude
    I search for beginnings
    amid oil and canvas dreams
    concertos, symphonies,
    coffee in a Norman Rockwell cup
    two boys playing football
    with the motto
    Hit like you mean it.
    Light another home rolled cigarette
    unshaven, unbathed,
    unconcerned with life
    outside the realm
    of my imagination.

    Robert Lowell stares out at me from the shelf
    cloistered in between
    the notes from Russian History
    photographs in cardboard envelopes
    cd-roms of pc games
    a modem out of date
    and dvds
    all sitting and collecting dust
    like the volumes on the shelf
    on the wall behind me.
    Gatsby, Henry the Fifth, Milton
    tomes of English literature
    remembrances of academia
    atop a two drawer filing cabinet
    a cd carousel
    cluttered cds
    a hard drive from an old computer
    tossed away and forgotten
    a shelf of five
    half filled with vhs tapes
    a shelf of tools
    a shelf of hymnals and bible
    a shelf of poetry volumes
    of words once read and cherished
    and atop the shelf
    a stand with sword and bo and nun-chucks
    and hats stacked two and two
    eight windows – two and four and two
    all draped and shuttered
    as if the light of day is an intrusion

    Vivaldi springs to life
    recalling animated flowers
    springing from the earth
    in brilliant sunshine days
    of fresh and new beginnings
    and in my soul
    awakens something wondrous
    an epiphany of insight
    inexpressible in words
    flowing, tidal, rushing,
    the ebb and neap of my emotions
    drawn out from the primal soul
    then lofted up by Mozart
    violin concerto for quartet,
    so beautiful, so inspiring,
    and once so perverted
    as to lead the monsters
    as an anthem
    Deutschland, Deutschland, uber alles,
    even perfection can be corrupted.
    I weep for joy and sorrow.

    How desolate we are,
    how unlike creatures imagined by the gods.
    Our cultures selfish and uncaring;
    our churches nothing more
    than pitiful shadows of faiths we have abandoned.
    Puppets played upon the stage
    of life's elusive quest for dominance
    while puppet masters move the strings
    and we are left to dance and sing our parts
    and never understand the sins of our omissions.

    Canon and Gigue for three violins
    cascading throes of hope where there is none.
    Another sip of coffee, cold now,
    a long drag from the cigarette,
    and fingers on the keyboard,
    occasional winces from arthritis,
    and sinus pain and a shoulder now devoid of cartilage
    demand a pause.

    Returning with fresh coffee, hot,
    a bit of creamer, rare, but now and then,
    I savor cream with the instant brew
    heated in a microwave.
    Piano Concerto #11 in A minor
    taps pleasingly on tympanum
    bright notes of hope and joy
    flowing into
    Symphony #3 in E flat major
    the ache will soon be over.
    Ignore the pain
    push on
    you may have words this morning
    that may change a life
    or inspire the next generation.

    What a sad, pathetic thought.
    How could you be so arrogant.
    When you are done and standing at the throne
    what more will be said of you.
    Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
    he lived and while he lived
    he wrote words on blank paper
    and cluttered up the world
    with words...just words.
    And then he died.
    As all men die...alone...desolate
    mourned, after a time, forgotten.

    Les Contes d'Hoffmann
    syncopated tides of dream inspired vision
    grace and beauty, joy and passion
    unimagined in reality.
    Peer Gynt Suite #1 for orchestra,
    emergence, revelation, crescendo
    lifting, soaring far above
    the stark reality of bleak and desolate mankind.
    Drink, smoke, write
    words on electronic paper,
    Piano Sonata #14 in C sharp
    invokes the images long hidden,
    within the depths of my soul.
    Horrifying pictures
    the inhumanity of war,
    never forgotten,
    only folded into origami ravens
    allowed to fly off into places
    where I promise not to go,
    but in my wanderings remember.
    No tears, no pain,
    bitter emptiness,
    of what cannot be unseen.

    Oh sweet voice
    Luciano Pavarotti
    Turandot act 3: Nessun Dorma
    and deep within
    No man will sleep
    gains meaning
    for sleep is an illusion
    and I will sleep eternally
    when I am gone.

    For sleep is peace,
    and on this earth
    there is no peace
    no joy, no meaning,
    until we understand...
    we are all one...
    our pains...
    our suffering...
    our desires...
    our ambitions...
    we are not unique or special
    we are one cell, one organism,
    we are one being
    and the pain we cause another
    is the pain we feel
    within our soul.

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