A light touch,
can really pluck
the heart strings.
My heart sings,
at the opportunity,
to practice with you.
But I, at times, am Icarus
too ambitious-
too inconsistent
with the placement of my fingers.
But vigorous no doubt,
My hope is that practice makes me perfect,
I can fine-tune this
day by day,
I just hope the neightbors
have nothing to say.
As they have their privacy,
so do we,
we’ll keep our sour notes
and symphonies,
all to ourselves.
Kids,
let me set the record straight
about “rock-n-roll” music.
It is an instrument
of evil-
a tool of demons,
devils,
and those who serve them.
It will rot your brain,
morally bankrupt you,
and turn you into a pawn
of satanists.
Don’t panic,
don’t “turn on,
tune in,
and drop out,”
and don’t you dare buy another album.
“It’s not all bad,”
you might be saying to yourself,
but you’d be wrong,
and here’s why.
The devil is clever,
he hides his demands,
in the music in two ways.
1) He has his messengers carry out
their acts of debauchery in real life,
instead of talking about it.
Monkey see, monkey do.
2) They hide their messages in their songs,
and it’s as simple as listening
playing the track
backwards,
to reveal their evil intent.
You can beat the Devil,
just keep your wits about you.
Kids,
why can’t you listen to nice music?
Maybe some day,
The whole world will know my name,
Hang on my every word,
Hum, clap, dance and nod to my songs,
But tonight, I just strum on my cigar box.
Maybe some day,
I’ll travel all over Texas,
Or leave this state,
On a cross-country tour,
Cap it all off with a worldwide voyage,
But tonight, for anyone in earshot, I’ll just strum on my cigar box.
Maybe some day,
I’ll be all over the radio,
The stars themselves would dance,
Because I’ve gone platinum,
Hell, I’d settle for gold,
But tonight, for anyone who’ll stick around, I’ll just strum on my cigar box.
A musician never acts alone,
Unless, of course,
they happen to be a drone.
Pay no attention,
To the fact that,
There is no one in front of the curtain.
Études are meant to showcase one’s skill,
But with the amputation,
Of middlemen,
There is no risk,
No drama,
In such a piece.
Chopin’s Opus 25 Number 11,
“Winter Wind”
Played with ruthless calculation,
Feels like little more,
Than a brisk,
Cakewalk.
Walking,
Blindfolded,
Through the annals,
Feeling the walls,
And using echolocation.
The ancient texts,
Sacred incantations,
Chants of legends,
Contained in texture,
To be deciphered,
By a stylus,
Which cannot,
Transcribe.
Each pressing,
With its own,
Character.
Each batch with,
It’s own,
Flaws,
Hissing,
Popping,
Scratches,
Not even counting,
The shattered ones.
Revolutions,
Dictate,
No matter,
How convoluted,
The labyrinth,
Until it’s time,
To switch,
To the other side.
The File Pile 