I Ride A Floating Piano

I ride a floating piano. I’m not playing it. Just riding around on it. Floating along with the music. Sometimes you can barely make out something moving in the sand and then you do and you can’t take your eyes off of it. I jabber about perspective a lot but it’s not tin or rubber and I don’t need it here. I need something that stays thin, like the sound of a violin, that expands in the air until it becomes conciliatory. Death is at the very heart of metaphysics. But let’s not drag that in just yet. Let it come of its own accord, on the back of a donkey, tattooed and stratospheric. The thermometer isn’t talking to me anymore. I don’t know what the temperature is. But I can hear some of the words rattle like gourds of amorous wisdom. Wisdom is always in love with something. Quite often something vague and impossible to obtain. Which isn’t wise at all. But whoever said wisdom was wise? Maybe it’s just a resigned reflection in reaction to our current times, which are all chaos and volatility, like a mean-spirited thirteen-year-old girl. I’m not impugning anyone’s sex here. I hope. I don’t mean to. I never met a reproductive organ I didn’t like. But let them be for now. They don’t call them privates for nothing. I invite you instead to feast your eyes on the panorama before you. It’s that Sibelius violin concerto again, the one conducted by Mikko Francq, with Hilary Hahn on violin. Tonight I’m mending the flow of the arena. The entire thing, tier by tier if I have to. I crave a shovel. And a panacea. I’m tired of twirling this pain around like a cowpie. It’s time to let it go, watch it whirling off into space and then sit down and tend to my needs. You know the ones. Those. Imitations never work. You’ve got to have the real thing. Or the experience falls flat. That we fail to find in experience any elements intrinsically incapable of exhibition as examples of general theory is the hope of rationalism. Which is the whole reason I volunteered to come here in the first place. I’m not here for the cheese. I’m here for the rationalism. And a big bowl of Platonic forms. The kind I used to enjoy in Aristotle’s kitchen. Do you see this suet? This marks the deliverance of the environment. The accordion thinks it’s grain. If I try summoning a cry, I will bump into my own shadow, and welcome the whispers of spice coming to me from the island. We’ve been at sea a long time now. It’s time we undid our reluctance and accepted the crabs for what they are, crustaceans and therapists. Everyone is uniquely suited to pursue their own horizon, even if it means clomping around in the sand. The game of narrative requires a heavy disposition, a penchant for scores that can smash any barrier and come out the other side stirred and enriched.