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.

Through the Micrometer



by agonizing


Every tooth will fit

neatly into its

corresponding groove,

so that all

goes smoothly along,

without a drop of oil,

or so help me


I will breathe life into this machine,

by the sweat of my brow,

the skill in my heart

and every tool on my belt.

There is no room for interpretation in my work,

it is so,

or it does not function.

I consult my micrometer,

and make my judgement calls,

which bits can serve,

and which

must be filed down,

beaten flush,

or discarded.

I am the Stradivari

of player pianos,

my creations will help themselves,

play their parts

and serve their needs

with or without you.

Player Piano


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,