Music is spirit in-chant. Syncopated by silence. Ethers heard by inner ears like Beethoven’s—angelic, intergalactic gamboling. Wese’s lingering melodies bowed on her now cracked violin—
the gaiety she recanted in college to play second fiddle to a dour husband. Appalachian
dulcimer droning may curl down along-side haunting Lakota flute-song. A lyric décor
for never-before-attempted-modulations improvised by heartsick visitors. Guard figurines
of this domain of broken strings, were once pillars on an African Chief’s throne.

In what context is true
harmony embodied?
Which clef, treble
or bass is fingered
for survival by ego’s
cyclical mob peopling
the funhouse we play in
calling it our life? Is any
sensation or thought
un-distortable? Consider
the Ruah–-breath—of one
office guest remembering:

“When I was 14 my high
school band leader needed
a clarinetist. Our maestro
picked my butterfingered pal.
I was so pissed. I drilled scales
till my ears hurt. Meanwhile,
my father left to play with
a girlfriend. And shortly
afterward, I woke up
to my sister, screaming:
her arm dripping blood, razor
in hand, appeared in my room.
When the police came, mom
and my brother went
to the hospital. Me? no way.
Stayed home practicing
all day. Starting then,
the clarinet was me. Paid
my way through college
and medical school
with gigs in a jazz band.