Me and Faulkner

Sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it, but Most repeat the same theme over and over again, it's As if they were trying to refine what seems so strange And off and important to them, it's done by everybody Because everybody is of a different stripe and form And each must work out what is before them Over and over again because That is their personal tiny miracle Their bit of luck Like now as like before and before I have been slowly Drinking this fine red wine and listening to symphony after Symphony from this black radio to my left Some symphonies remind me of certain cities and certain rooms Make me realize that certain people now long dead were able to Transgress graveyards And traps and cages and bones and limbs People who broke through with joy and madness and with Insurmountable force In tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles And even now after decades of listening I still am able to hear A new work never heard before that is totally Bright, a fresh-blazing sun There are countless sub-stratas of rising surprise from the Human firmament Music has an expansive and endless flow of ungodly Exploration Writers are confined to the limit of sight and feeling upon the Page while musicians leap into unrestricted immensity Right now it's just old Tchaikowsky moaning and groaning his Way through symphony #5 But it's just as good as when I first heard it I haven't heard one of my favorites, Eric Coates, for some time But I know that if I keep drinking the good red and listening That he will be along There are others, many others And so This is just another poem about drinking and listening to Music Repeat, right? But look at Faulkner, he not only said the same thing over and Over but he said the same Place So, please, let me boost these giants of our lives Once more: the classical composers of our time and Of times past It has kept the rope from my throat Maybe it will loosen Yours