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.
Formulaic conveyance,
Each step of the way,
With programmed patterns,
Robotic arms,
Outfitted with pincers,
And cutting implements.
Each drone,
Making clones,
With their own tasks honed,
Couldn’t do it alone.
Though it lacks the imagination,
And dizzying whimsey,
Of his creations,
Rube Goldberg would be proud,
That his machinations,
Weren’t so far-fetched,
After all.
Years ago,
What was just depiction,
We now know,
Is not fiction.
Mechanical animals,
Seemed laughable,
Impractical,
But now they’re factual,
Downright palpable,
But not infallible.
They’re slow and loud,
Too pricey to make crowds,
Not even endowed,
With body shrouds.
Limbs twisted,
Moving pistons,
Exposed systems,
Soon to be,
Big business.
Mechanical mules,
Climbing like cats,
In need of fuel,
That isn’t grass.
The File Pile 