Here, a pledge to control, surrender
to another's order. Notes
command legions of players, their made-up general. Then,
the quick roll
& pause of timpani. Sense bent by sound, hollers out of line.
Drum flurries & tone
conduct a lightning—unwieldy lethal jitter—
into harnesses & hardness. & cacophony exceeds its maximum mass
stability
until the roundness of sound rolls even its conductor
to submission.
The jumped-up master eyes his maker—
black iris of boomtown—hushes
his woofing & joins the ranks of beat-shakers. Shaking
down the orchestra pit, the bandstand,
the car frame, throbbing
a round gut in time. Beat weaves the air thick
with rumble, softens the cymbal-shatter, often tames
a cornet's shrill. & outside the concert hall
foot traffic trembles the streets.
Guttural engine sputter shudders every avenue,
passing riverside cafés,
the cadence of teaspoons and chatter. The beat's citizenry salutes
the current whir humming the surface
of those dusky rivers, zipping
through bridge mouths, through open strides
of the unsuspecting.
Citizens often forget their country.
So beneath throats, bass waits
for bloomtime, where words wriggle deep & unborn.
Under sound, the imperial
hand, façade of fair, the lowest frequencies stir us. We fall shy of perfection
eternally, trying to match the beat beyond our bodies—
the ancient river flow, language's elusive pulse. & our faith
in rhythm vibrates to a hush.
Even when vibrations go missing,
there is vibration. Even when the foot stops tapping.
