Tag Archives: music

Chapter 3 – The Silver Flute, Pt. 3

28 Sep

The confrontation. In her breathless trance I feel that I am becoming a shadow on the wall. I am volumizing – my insides fading out, while my body remains solid and a melody still flowing from her fingers. I open my eyes and exclaim, I felt myself disappearing! The person at my side laughs as if I am making a joke. She recites this poem to me:

The ceremony


As I gather supplies

For my journey

Over my shoulder

A flute made of silver

To guide me

And serve as protector

Led by the moon

Are my feet marching on

My eyes absorb her brightness


Of my destination

Once there

We have a seat and play

The walls surround

Catch sound

Sending it every way and upward

Lovers swoon

At my sorrowful tune

While still others seem disturbed

Until finally I am desserted

Left alone to play a wind song for the birds of

Night and you

Have come to join me

I found her in a pool of her own blood. A bullet through her brain. Another drive-by shooting? Perhaps. Kids these days are so paranoid they probably thought she was planning to open fire with a small silver cannon. Anyway, no one saw the tire tracks inside the court until Dawn arrived and pointed them out to us. She had a special interest in the case. We at the precinct found her forte in seemingly meaningless crimes and especially murder, well – exploitable. I had to grin when I realized the pun I’d made in connection with the blood spattered sheet music spread all around the girl. It seemed she wouldn’t be around for a second refrain. I was just trying to make out some notes when Dawn explained the tracks were that of a motorcycle driven by a heavy set man in his early thirties. She had determined all of this from the width and pattern of the tire tracks – nothing more. It was the conservative, yet seasoned way he made his way around the small court that had her convinced the man who murdered this small, now silent angel was no kid.

Chapter 3 – The Silver Flute, Pt. 2

28 Sep

The first time she played the silver flute she felt a surge of energy and pure emotion, the likes of which she had never experienced before. It was the first time she felt a way “out” or a way in depending on how you look at it without the aid of hallucinogens. It was so clean. She couldn’t get enough. She played for hours never looking up to acknowledge the people around her much less eat or drink. It was as if the flute played itself and she was naught but the air it took to breathe. The keys were soft and soundless under her fingers; effortlessly gauging the rhythm of her song. She played a furious Hungarian sweep without fail and felt herself a virtuoso. Then a melancholy “Greensleeves” found her lips and she fell deep into the spell of the first octave of that seductive minor scale.

Far away from her so-called friends, her family, and alone with this music an invisible man became her mentor. Some girls grew up believing in a Prince Charming. Her fantasy was created by books. In particular, books given to her by an influential lover whom she imagined was grooming her for their future together. Part suffering writer, part vampire, part seductive intellectual pedophile and part lesbian poet – he introduced her to the night, to the moon and to the power of melody. He could have been her phantom had she known such a thing as that existed.

“Ah, Greensleeves now farewell adieu

To g-d I pray to prosper thee

For I am still your lover true

Come once again and love me.”

It is during the week of the big moon now seven years and a nine-month trip to a foreign country later that she makes her trek to the tombs. It’s really just a duplex racquetball court in the local park that produces ethereal acoustic effects. She chooses this time with the knowledge that the light of her moon will be brightest now. Just off center in the sky. Between the hours of 12 a.m. and 3 a.m. that giant orb is her lantern and her companion. She likes to say that porthole is open while human shadows are cast directly and nevermore. It is quite a dangerous thing to traipse about in the light of street lamp, yet in the beams of moonlight one is free to roam peacefully without fear of being anything but blue.

She is a petite thing. Her once mousy brown auburn hair hangs to her waist, tied back with a fresh twig she has just plucked from an olive tree. She feels this is appropriate hair accessory for the moment. She believe her thick, untamed eyebrows to be her best feature as they frame her fiery green eyes and give a fiendishly demonic finish to her round face. People say she looks beautiful when she smiles. Probably because it’s such a rare occurrence. At any rate, she flashes her piercing fangs with pride. The dentist calls them a cosmetic defect but she’s under the impression that being defective is better than being normal at this point in her almost adulthood. Being a child of the night keeps her skin pale and ever so soft. She secretly wishes to be bronzed when she spots a fine desert specimen of womanliness but the smell of burning leather always sends her running for the safety of the shadows. The sun kills!

In the privacy of her own private tomb, not more than 500 yards from the nearest intersection, she prepares “The Music of the Night”. She’s older now and has been officially inducted into the world of Broadway musical numbers, opera and ballet. She begins with this song ritually in search of the phantom she’s absolutely certain exists now though she knew nothing of the sort only a few short years ago. She ends with her own version of tele-communication – a high-pitched trilling which usually sent the neighborhood hounds into a frenzy but did little for humans unlike herself.

She believes sometimes in the great powers of the luminescence surrounding her. Bestowing upon herself the ability to make contact or to send a secret message to a faraway lover. She finds her inner light to be brightest of all. Mostly, she’s just blowing the day away, for the night is her sanctuary. The place where she can shine without fear of blinding. To a passer-by some of her found sounds might even be a bit annoying.

She never actually intends to meet anyone here. But the effects of the moon and her enchanting music have induced more than a few memorable encounters. Tonight, she plays a special tune in honor of the full moon. When the sky turns midnight blue and the sidewalk glows and it’s colder than it’s ever been she says, the porthole is open. The porthole in her tomb is the gateway to dimensions lesser in number and higher in tune. To rest and to perform the calling, she sends all visitors to flee. Inviting only one to join her, she does not feel the cold and she is not afraid.

Chapter 2 – My Self Is

10 Aug

My self is

Foreign to me now

How I wish that I

Might find the woman who

Lives inside my body

She told me a story once

About a man

I can believe her if I choose

She said

Someday you will be happy, I promise

And he said

I love you

Chapter 2 – In the Cellar

4 Aug

Persian rugs

Under fishnet canopy

Fallen nose of golden Russian

Perfect frame

Splintered glass

Face beneath unscathed

Red wrinkled satin

Bloody blue baby

Black light showering inhabitant

With glowy shine

Insanity divine

Torturous tools of terror

Shock beholder

Wine jug shavings quench

The parched pallet

Separate the pain

From the portrait

Conquer reality please

Illuminate the line to freedom

From liberation

Desecration of virtue

Land of the freak

Home of the bravest

From flea to itchy-scratch flea

Parasites spread plague

While nasty politicians

And Christians crucify

The meek and the saved

Ashes to ashes

Trust versus inevitable suicidal rust

Each of us appears the same

When all that remains

Is dust to dust

Chapter 2 – For Vesa, In sweet sober memory

1 Aug

Cross your legs at the knees

Young man

See what you may

Through the pain of this morning’s light

In a queer way I always thought

Falling for a drunk

Was far better than sleeping sober

And alone.

Sipping my vodka I wonder

Where you are now

And why you chose the kitchen floor

Instead of her bed

What thoughts have been sloshing around

In your weary, weaving head?

Myriad portraits I sketch

My words the paint

Conveying messages to you

For you

About you.

I write

While you seek the place

You’ll close your blurry eyes

And lay your body down


Chapter 2 – For Babies

1 Aug

Today I realized what an incredible miracle your life will be. I gasped in amazement at the thought of your birth. You are not yet tangible and yet you have filled your mother’s belly with your presence. I can’t wait to meet you, child of light and love. Your life will be one of laughter and learning and imagination and will in turn give life to those around you.

December 1994 – Inspired by Heather’s baby Auna

Chapter 2 – For Christian

1 Aug

Black asphalt burns

Warm red hearts

Sitting, sizzling in the sun

Listening to traffic

Singing to passers by

All about death

And love

When will they hear

Our howling under the moon

Shallow in their holes

Half covered in earth

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