The trickle of a
stream’s serenity,
the pan flute’s
halcyon lull,
reveals to me
it’s Zen
(which is acceptable
now in Scrabble,
though that isn’t the
point of this poem).
These sounds are
warmly emanating
from one of those dime-
a-dozen CDs,
the kind you find
at a dollar store,
which help you to
relax,
loosen your every
limb
like a limp elastic.
I have the open
window in the
summer, the cardinals
and the blue jays
joining to suggest
I stay in bed,
forego another
chill pill
in the din of
afternoon,
but I miss them all
when it snows,
become grateful
for a disc
revealing spectrums—
in just the
right light,
at just the
perfect angle,
the one in which
the chickadees
have joined
the Sangha’s chorus,
the Tibetan
singing bell,
even in the
pall
of a murky
winter,
virtuosic birds
which are twittering:
from the boughs
of a cut-
down tree, felled
since the distant copy-
right of 1993,
their lifespans having
ended
before this thing was
even shrink-wrapped,
that it’s all a
piss-poor substitute,
for a living , breathing
flock, that Enya would
sound like Anthrax
if juxtaposed, against
this insipid meander,
which would even make
an elevator salesman
cringe,
and I really don’t
wanna sleep my
entire Saturday away,
whittle my way at
the ponder of
stupid koans,
and not only that,
it’s yet another
painful example of
how death and its sluggish
rot can have the gall
to sound so soothing—
so fucking , fucking
soothing.
Andreas Gripp
September 30, 2024
RF Image
Comentários