There’s nothing more

The ideal is unyielding melody,
powerful, restless, continuous —
half-simpleton, half god, the great symphonist
He once thought her the love of his life —
but now she’s just a cranky, old, prune-faced,
sleaze fuck, from Forest Hills
Meanness, hysteria, self-sacrifice...
The great professor could work no miracles
He cut into his patients who revered him and
with great skill, and the best intentions, mutilated them
“You work on the water and you smoke too much...” said the seer,
who sees only what we already know
He was devout, that clown, he prayed deeply, so reverent, everyday
He even encouraged his house slaves to do the same
With red hair and yellow teeth, that Bozo...
He walked on the stage intense and ready
To the piano he resolutely began to play
Then he’d abruptly stop and ask the audience
“Did I play that right?”
When they showed their approval he’d
raise his hand to stop them and
he assured them that before it was okay
but that now, at last,
he’d play for them as only he could
Like an old lion, solitary, watchful
with visions of greatness, dreams of rescue
We’d disappear to the sides of his mind — we are
puppet-like characters easily moved, then discarded
He derived great pleasure in assisting those
whose wounds are self-inflicted
He would never decide what to do in haste
His deep-seated rage was for toughness and order
Some thought him part tone-deaf and quite elusive
By nature reserved and solitary, he’d grow up to say
“I’m old, I’m rich and
there’s nothing more they can do to me”

-February 16, 2011-