Thursday, October 15, 2009


Tap, tap

Gentle rain on my tin porch roof

Thunder growling across the darkling sky

Lightening flashes crashing ears that hear

Whether it’s the weather beating their drums

Or the magic of sticks chopping motion making

An unidentified drummer’s flying discs beat air.

A pair of such metallic shapes kissing

Mouth to mouth resuscitate a memory

Of smoky soft shoe shuffling coolness

At that jazzy scale and tempo

Or boiling blood heated by the tingling

Of the many minute minglings

On the dancing gypsy’s wooden ring

Or at their greatest size

Slammed by hand to yell war

In crowded theaters of Astroturf

Suffering from its celebration

By big brass bands, marching as if to.

If you like your wave lengths long

Change the symbol for the cymbal to the gong

Roger Waters aims at the heart of the sun

Another sweaty J. Arthur Rank wank onset

Suggesting curiosities about inscrutability

Of exotic eastern uses for the high hat —

Cooking pad thai in it one way, it’s a wok

The other, on coolies smackin’ track,

It was hat, imagine that.

Brushes aren’t the only metal

That makes the cymbals sing

When his sword strikes orc shield

Gandalf is the lord of the reverberating ring.

Should that shield be slung,

A horizontal Frisbee guillotine’ll

Cut a headless swath among

Who failed to identify those flying objects

Fantastic millennia before they came in peace.

Upturned to the gentle rain, it is a bath for birds

A respite from foraging furrows in the field

Plowed parallel by such discs strung on a shaft

To raise food to fry in a wok

To eat from a bowl

With chop sticks.

Tap, tap.


Brian Miller said...

that was really cool. the transitions to perspectives all on one thing.

Pisces Iscariot said...

Love it! the J. Arthur Rank bit is hilarious :D

word varification: cultri - beats cultural every time

Lilwave said...

I'm dancing to the beat while watching over my
My drummer friend would love this one.

Word varification: conceria - An explosion of many concerts at once.