When you come to arrest me
For my thoughts: no defense.
Yes, and guilty of more
Since you arrived.

Before you disappear me…
See that mirror?

[----> This was jotted down as a zero bonus entry
to Combat Words < ----]

Four forces: Father, Son, Holy Ghost, and
Lucifer the weak force fathers rejected
While the strong force that Father
Blew a thousand suns to the
Alamogordo desert and
Imploded Trinity where also
Christ Community Church
Burned Shakespeare.

To get there steam conflated
With a theory of vacuum
Projected anthracite
On iron cast wheels along
Wrought rails. New speed proved
That 60 won’t harm you
If you don’t stop too fast

Pursuit of truth fused with practik in
Iron coiled by copper wire
Ye olde “iron core electro”
Pumped full of lightening.

If you cut the power now
In stages
A thousand satellites will fall to earth
In a shower of steam tech flame.

Between the fantasy and the perception
A space lies infinitesimally vast
And the memory of even
Interperceived
Events stretches shrinks and
Distorts vis-à-vis an objective
Viewpoint held by no one
At all. When such memory
Is repackaged with at best
Approximate language spoken
to another who writes this
From a memory of long ago
Fiction results but a mistake
Would be to regard it as false.

The apex was the middle of the
Cascades between Wenatchee
And Seattle, on a flatcar
The kind with ends sidetracked
He said to the older guy
Who was maybe 22
To whom Rhosonny had lied
About already knowing how to ride
The rails not stating but implying
That he’d ridden freight before
Which he had but not as a hobo
Yet justly confident from within
His ignorance that the railroad men
Would like him led his elder to the
Freight yard and they got on this train
Now stopped in the middle of
Mountains to which they rode
So ecstatic they danced the whole
Way to the rhythms of the train.

“I wish I had a cigarette”
Then ran to the end of the car to
Lean out and watch the train for which
They’d sidetracked go nearly
Empty down the mountain
A figure leaned out from the
Train clatter a voice broke through
‘Tobacco” as he whooshed by
And a full pouch of Bugler
With papers landed on the floor
Of their car for the rest
Of the ride through the North Cascades
Neither was sure whether he
Or the stars themselves danced.

But the deeper one came
After they’d parted
(Forever?) and he’d
Drunk a case of beer with
Three Native American Korean
War vets who lived on the docs
And the four of them passed
Out on a pier in the afternoon sun
Years later she said

“I can always tell when you’re in Seattle because whenever the weather is nice you’re here and whenever you’re here the weather is nice”

Since he’d never seen rain
In Seattle though there fairly often
After sleeping it off he got up
To walk to the freight yard
The three stood said they’d ride
With him. At the next pier stands
An enormous man, only about 8 inches
Taller than 6 foot 2 Rhosonny
But as broad as two men
No visible fat a black suit
And pony tail. “My brother”
Arm outstretched to the Puget Sound
“Died there last year”
His eyes and Rhosonny’s eye
Met and having met held
In silence through more than one
Ship’s blast when a fielder’s glove
Sized hand gripped his shoulder
“You travel alone. Like me
You travel alone.”

The other three Natives
Turned on heel and marched off
The hand remained fixed
Eyes locked and time was
A plaything of there.

The railroadist shuttled,
1875 c.e.
San Francisco ↔ Monterey
On the Santa Cruz or Ancon
118 miles now on roads
96 by water (local measure)
Goodall, Perkins coastal steamships
Prone to accidents –
Schooners and steamers run down
By iron and high speed propulsion –
Each way fourteen hours
Early regional field manufacture.
Thomas Carter’s first
Simultaneous
Orders, identical specs
Forced rational reduction of process
Not just car assembly but
Break heads, truck center plates,
Ogee washers, journal boxes,
Truss rod saddles, drawbars…
Consistent design elements:
Laconic, minimalist —
Doric columns of iron wheels
Made here the same as there
Engineering
Drawings rapid,
Sparse, precise
To assembly instructions
Later at size for templates
To help vendors
Conform
To his designs.

Leave —
You know
And have known
You must —
All familiar
Situations

Uneasy
But settled pasts
Trail
Petrified woods
Fear projects with
Fewer amenities
Into futures

This moment
Sliced through
Root mats
Of was and will be
Is all
Will never
Leave

Her upper east side accent, regal bearing, direct gaze,

Rich black clothes and hair, dark eyes, pale skin sophistication

Intent on German culture, professed sexual freedom,

New York street junkie credentials, having kicked the needle,

And her habit of brushing her breasts lightly against him

When they met caused him to say, “I want to make love with you.”

Remaining very cool she cood, “Why, thank you. I’d like that –

In fact, so much I’d like to get to know you better first.”

She was in love with a man who was in love with a man

Who was in love with Rhosonny, who wanted without love.

She intimidated him with her selfpossessiveness,

Broader sexual experience, and age. She was his

Ever closer acquaintance whom he didn’t trust, his friend

In a superficial way, with whom he spent more and more

Time, mostly in coffee shops or walking around the East

Village but also in his tiny apartment. Not once

Did they hold hands, hug, touch, or kiss though they sat silently

Together sometimes and looked at each other. He only

Repeated his offer three times, weeks apart. She answered,

“Oh, we will. But not today.” He lost interest in her sexually

But enjoyed her electric company, intensity

Shared, which others commented on frequently, “Kunthia

And you have a strange thing for each other” or “I’m afraid

Of her. You’d better watch out with her” or “she really

Has a thing for you” or “Are you in love with Kunthia?”

Aside from a few gay men who liked rough trade, Rhosonny

Knew no-one in New York City. Kunthia was the first

Woman he got to know there though he’d had sex with others.

They were drinking coffee together in a bagel shop.

“I want to take you up on your offer,” voice a cool breeze

She focused both eyes on his one, “come to my apartment.”

They walked in silence up 7th Avenue to her place.

In silence they went in, not touching.

She indicated a couch.

“I need a shower”

And disappeared.

Water ran.

She returned wrapped in a towel.

“Give me a few more minutes.”

She walked to the kitchen.

She picked up a bottle of water.

She stood behind him where he sat on the couch.

She pressed the bottle of water against his chest.

She rubbed her cheek against his neck.

She kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear,

“I’ll be back when my hair’s dry,”

And left.

Rhosonny began to weep

Uncontrollably.

Was it the touch?

Was it the kiss?

Was it the water?

It had been so long

Since someone

Had been so kind.

“I’m sure it’s right, but I have to count it.”

The bank officer looked disappointed. Counting

$10,000 takes longer than counting a couple hundred.

Dropping the cash into a crumpled brown paper bag,

Rhosonny carried it up Madison to 54th and took the

Elevator to the 53rd floor where he worked in the

Offices of a trust fund son, shared inheritor of a vast

Fortune in commodities and beverages, who never

Appeared in the office during business hours. Three stock

Brokers, all Wharton MBAs, full time, one accountant,

Oxford trained, a 5’10″ short-skirted 40 something

Stunning blond office manager out of Juliard and a dropout

Bookkeeper – Rhosonny. The accountant triaged

Sizable donations for a variety of political causes,

All liberal. The Blue Foundation was where the trust

Fund money was deposited each month. Rhosonny

kept track of what everyone did with it and once a month

Picked up ten grand in pocket change for the boss

And ordered food, stocked shelves and refrigerator

(Copious and free for employees) and crystal, china, and silver.

After he temped on a project proofing accounts

Receivable for Lever Brothers, which he’d

Knocked off in record time, the department

Head didn’t have the pull to hire him permanently

Over the objections of his empty resume. So said

Department head, brunette, shapely, single,

Pushing 40 (once seeing the 28 yr old reading

Mysterium Coniunctionis, she said “That’s not summer

Reading, you know,” as though he’d disappointed

Her) told her friend at the Blue Foundation,

The office manager, to hire him.

“You’re Norweigan, aren’t you?” Katherine asked him.

“Half.” “I used to fuck a lot of Norweigans,” she said.

His deadpan gaze back sealed the job for him.

But she was a discomfort to him. She’d say that

So and so had tried to pick her up. He’d say

It must be nice, nobody ever tried to pick him up.

She’d say, people are always trying to pick you up,

You’re just too stupid to realize it. And she’d tell him

Details about her body, and about her exploits.

“They used to call me Katherine the great, you know about her?”

But this was a good stretch of time for him. The job wasn’t

Demanding — just a bunch of numbers — and he

Lived in an SRO on 15th Street, 5′ x 10′ with a 10′

Ceiling, bathroom down the hall. He’d lined the walls

With bookshelves used as structural support for

A plywood platform where he put his bed 6′ 6″ off the

Floor, ladder by the window, a siamese and a calico cat,

Hot plate, and mini refridgerator. “It’s like living on a ship,”

His surrogate father and former Hans Hoffman protege

Said when he saw it. The space was small, but he lived in Manhattan

For $25 a week. He was more free than he’d ever

Been before. Tania had left him, with his blessing. Her

Abortion hadn’t made either of them happy. He’d

Noticed her in college. Black pumps with denim pants

Taylored to a perfect fit, single piece cotton blouse

No bra, small breasts clearly outlined, vibrant blond

Hair to the waist, slate blue eyes, make-up

Like a runway model. Not his “type” at all.

But he decided to try an experiment. Men and boys

Approached her in a steady stream.

She wasn’t friendly to them.

He waited.

She left a book on a chair.

He picked it up. When she was surrounded

By other young women, he walked up to her

And handed her the book without expression,

“You forgot this.” he said.

She was flustered thanking him.

He said, “you’re welcome” and walked away.

Within three days they were keeping company.

“I’m leaving for New York in a month” he said.

“I think I’ll go with you” she said.

She liked riding on his Yamaha XS 1100.

She wasn’t afraid of anything physical.

She liked him to shoot the freeways at 30 mph over traffic flow.

She was the most complete lover he’d ever known: no taboos.

She was the daughter of a Navy aircraft carrier Commander.

She let him wear her father’s flight jacket, with her father’s approval.

She sold her powder blue Mercedes Benz to go with him.

She didn’t complain through Rocky Mountain thunderstorms on the back of the bike.

She considered poetry a rival.

She read his private notebooks.

She seemed pleased when he burned them in anger.

She was shy with strangers and discouraged him from having friends.

She got angry if even his friends looked appreciatively at another woman in her presence.

She wanted to keep it just the two of them, no outsiders, no social life.

She tried to enclose him, contain him, encompass him.

She just wasn’t enough for him even though he loved her.

By now he’d pretty much gotten over the breakup.

It surprised him how difficult it was to let her go.

Their last night together was ecstatic.

But his scholarship flourished.

He wrote daily.

Sex adventures saved him from brooding.

And this little job gave him enough to live on with few demands.

Katherine, though. She was becoming even more direct.

This worried him. He didn’t like messy situations.

If their genders were reversed, it would have been seen

As sexual harassment. But anyone he told laughed and

Asked him why he didn’t just “go for it.”

Beautiful Katherine, ex-lover to the boss,

Frustrated actress. Cocaine-party girl from way back,

Nearly 20 years his elder (not that he minded that,

Her beauty hadn’t diminished with age, but increased).

He was flattered by her attention, but he didn’t trust her.

It began to eat at him. He started thinking about her

All the time, nearly obsessively. Not sexually, not in fantasy,

But with discomfort, the way any disjunct work situation

Will bother most people. Then, one night, it cleared.

He remembered, at 17, being picked up hitchhiking in Hollywood

By a man in a Lincoln, a construction boss, his

Hard hat in the back window. The man had leaned toward him,

Rested his elbow on the armrest between them, and kept

Glancing at Rhosonny’s crotch, slowly increasing the

Intensity toward him, moving closer, letting his hand

Brush Rhosonny’s thigh. Rhosonny, abruptly, “Do you want to fuck?”

The man’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles

Turned red and white. And he stammered, “I.. I don’t have a place.”

“Neither do I,” Rhosonny said. “Drop me off at the next corner.”

Now he sat and wrote, page after page. He wrote detailed

Pornographic scenarios starring him and Katherine,

He wrote in detail the many things he wanted to do

To her body, coarse, hardcore. Then he rewrote

It as a letter to her and transfered it, in a neat hand,

To linen stationery with matching envelope.

Next morning, he put the letter into her inbox.

She appeared in his doorway, flustered, her face red,

Holding the letter, reading snatches from it to him in an angry voice.

She’d been crying. “I can’t believe you’d write something

Like this to me. The things you talk about doing…

The things you said about me… How could you make

Me the star in your porn flick? I can

Understand if you think these things. But write them

To me!??? What do you think I am?” and so forth.

She was upset.

Rhosonny poured tears. “I didn’t mean to upset you.

You’re just so beautiful. And when you tell me

About your affairs, it makes me want you. And I thought

You liked fucking Norwegians.” Stuff like that.

“I’m sorry. I was falling in love with you.

I had to tell you. I couldn’t stand it anymore. It hurts.

I wait for every night to end so I can see you in the morning.

But now that you know, I can

Drop it if you’ll forgive me.” She sat next to him

And put her arms around him and hugged him,

Patting his back, “Shhhhhh….. shhhh…. it’s ok. I understand.

But you can’t write things like that to me, ok?”

Looking into each other’s eyes. Tears streaming.

“It’ll never happen again, Katherine. I promise.”

When she left, she was relaxed and confident.

When she left he smiled. Situation under control.

From that moment, she was friendly, but never

Again did she try to provoke him. It was a pleasure

To go to work and drink the good coffee. It was

A pleasure to leave work and not think about it

Again until he arrived there again the next day.

Walking (with ants up his pants?)
The father of two swaggers
With arm around his half-naked
Wife along a skyway. Shape-shifting
Examples of advanced biology
Draped in mass made fashion that masks
The condition of uniform and badge.

When a whistle rises out of the earth
Compressed sound sublimates into solid
Rock and blows a gas line into bagpipes
Pressed against the skirts of marching
Transvestite CEOs with butch lap boys
Who strut power down the heirarchy
Until a bell rings and shadows lift
Heads in sunflowers tracking
Light’s course through the sky.

Turbines slow and warm a river
As it passes into your cortical
Media. Oxygen absorbed and
Pumped, deltoids, optic chiasm,
Cerebral aqueduct, and temporal pole
Flood to carry you on currents
That pulse and ebb through your
Linear projections. Table. Chair.
Rock. Definition by function. Definition
By composition. Reification
By use. To orange crustose lichen
Home and root of nourishment.
Shelter for the northern sagebrush
Lizard doing pushups on a nearby
Rock, watching. Definition
By how hard it feels after you sit
On it all day. Milarepa points at
His leathery old ass and laughs.

When in a line three geese strain
Slow flight six feet feet in front at the
Level of your eye, the windsound
Of wings brushes you back
Ducking their lumbering labor. Rippled
In their wake, a biped with radio
In fear of pursuing silence glares
Past, his cheap crystal sound
Carried off with dandelion seed by
Unsteady breezes down and away
Into the brushed light landscape
Of a town or mirage in the distance
Below.

“You like sake!,” in heavily Japanese-accented English.
“Yes, I like sake,” looking into her eyes, showing mirth
Just short of smiling, trying to put some gravel in his
Self-diagnosed overly smooth voice. The third
Decanter. Tromacali hadn’t shown. She was undependable.
Hollywood. Waited for 2 hours after hitchhiking for
5 hours to get there, and she didn’t make the date.
He understood that it wasn’t because she wasn’t
In love with him. She was. But she lived more according
To ideas of things, of what she thought she needed
To experience, than by the way she felt in her heart,
Though nearly everything she thought she needed was
A hedonistic pleasure, with the limits ever expanding.
He had pretty much mastered the chopsticks now.
And he discovered that he liked sushi nearly as much
As he liked warm nihonshu. He had some cash from
Restringing a 7-foot Yamaha grand, so he thought he’d
Take Tromacali out bar hopping, but someone else must have
Invited her before he was able to get there. He walked
Up and down Hollywood Blvd. for a long while, stopped
At the big news stand and hit a couple book stores,
Then saw Japonica Japanese restaurant, a clean,
Well lighted place that seemed exotic. He decided
That this would be a good time to learn how to use
Chopsticks. Though he was under age, it was rare
For someone to ask him for ID when he bought
Alcoholic drinks so… “sake,” which he’d never tried,
Then awabi “barbecued,” on fire, sake
Flavor and abalone flesh, served in a conch
Shell, rice, lots of rice, anothel pot of lice, prease,
Ikura, salmon eggs, shii-take; tako with
Eight arms here resilient slices, possibly his
Favorite, uni, Italian delicacy for old men
To retain virility, gonads of sea urchin; tuna
Aka-mi, chuu-toro, o’o-toro; kappa-maki
Reminded him. Airline pilot, when Rhosonny
Had finished regulating his piano, brought out a
Tray of Johnnie Walker Black and toasted
Nori, both new to Rhosonny, both instantly
Liked, never forgotten. The pilot told him,
Though he’d never tried it, that the polite
Way is to eat sushi with one’s fingers, not
Chopsticks (though I believe this is now
Deemed “over polite”), so Rhosonny
Ate the sushi with his fingers, and taught
Himself how to use chopsticks
On the sashimi, tempura, and rice.

Rhosonny could consume large amounts
Of food without feeling full or gaining weight,
“The Human Garbage Disposal” his mother
Called him, for his habit, once everyone else
In the family had eaten, of finishing off all of the
Leftovers at the same sitting. And alcohol?
His introduction to whiskey was up in the hills.
Fred Cardsdale had come back from Nam without
One of his legs from the knee down, and with a new
Improved plastic throat from the day he got
Fragged on patrol. Once when a cop was about to
Arrest him for public drunkeness, Fred unstrapped
His leg and threw it at the cop. In stead of arresting
Him, the cop decided to just give him a ride home.
Fred knew how to take advantage of a disability,
And Fred liked to drink. A group of high-school kids
Would pool their money and give it to Fred, who would
Buy several bottles of cheap whiskey and challenge
Anybody to out chug whiskey against him. Most kids
Couldn’t even get half way through a pint. Fred’s
Formidable plastic throat allowed him to pour
The stuff practically straight into his stomach.
Rhosonny decided to practice in secret. One night
He challenged Fred to a chug contest and (a game
Well attested in the Icelandic Sagas. Egil, if I recall
Correctly, lost such a contest because his hosts
Watered their own drinks but not his — and his
Hangover in the morning was unacceptable, so he
Killed them all – and Rhosonny was at least half
Norweigan) tied Fred for the draining of a
Fifth of whiskey (unknown brand), which meant
He who vomited first lost. Rhosonny
Had eaten an enormous pot roast dinner
While Fred had likely eaten little or nothing.
Rhosonny waited for Fred to puke, then
Immediately followed suit. He was proud that he
Had been able to challenge such a tough guy
By the tough guy’s own rules. He’d always felt
That he, himself, was too soft, too smooth, too feminine,
Too sensitive, too accommodating, too polite,
Not butch enough. But a few days later
He regretted it. Fred didn’t have much to live for.
Getting free whisky by illegal buys and chugging
Was much of his life, and it was the one place
He reigned supreme. Rhosonny regretted having
Hurt him in this way. But he could hold liquor.

That party they gave his mother at the American
Legion bar, drinking scotch and soda after scotch and
Soda… Everyone knew he was under age, but he was
Naomi’s son, so they let it slide but she asked the
Bartender to keep an eye on the 17 yr old boy.
Later she told Rhosonny, “I’m mad at him for giving
You too much to drink.” Rhosonny said, oh,
I didn’t know it would cause him a problem.”
Naomi said, “He said you drank them like water
And, since he couldn’t see any change in you,
He figured that they weren’t having any effect,
But I know how drunk you got.”
She should know. She’d had a hard day.
When he got home from school, she was
Sitting at the kitchen table with two
Fifths of light rum. “One of these is yours.”
It took them several hours, but they drained both.
He was 15. Now, only close friends could tell he was
Drunk. Even then, they would only conclude that
He was drunk by his dulled intelligence, not
By his speech, which was never slurred or distorted,
Or by facial or body movements, which he kept
Frozen in a stone bust or Noh mask: people only
Asked him if he was stoned or drunk when
he was stone cold sober.

Sake by sake, fish by fish, rice by rice,
Rhosonny learned to control Japanese chop sticks.
After the fourth decanter, after the plates were all
Empty, Rhosonny bowed and smiled politely
At everyone in the room, which was mostly staff,
Who also bowed and smiled big smiles and
Let him know that they would like him to come back
Anytime. Then he stepped outside and started
Walking toward the freeway on-ramp to hitchhike home.

For Bob Hughes, Composer/Scholar (if he wants it)

Om, Ye Dharma Hetu Prabhava Hetun Teschan Tathagato

Hey Vadat Teshan Cha Yo Nirodha Evam Vadi Maha Shramanah Ye, Soha!

~Mantra of Dependent Origination

Fourth largest conifer, biggest of spruce,

Thin bark, flaking in disks, name from Tlingit

“outside of shee” — Baranof Island,

Sitka: stiff, sharp needles, scaly cones, black

Seeds, living to seven hundred years old,

Range south edge near Ft. Bragg, California.

Husqvarna refuse trucked raw through switchback

Logging roads to be quartersawn to a

Beryllium sheet thickness transparent

To x-rays for the top, fine grain, responsive

Soundboard with inlaid, multi-wood rosette.

Swietenia macrophylla: sky fruit

Concentrate circulates blood, is a known

Erectile dysfunction remedy (it’s said) —

But maybe, up to sixty meters tall,

Thick, stiff fruit thrusting up, big leaves spread wide,

One thinks the fruit inherently erect.

Then again, your neck, single piece, dovetailed,

Decorative volute, frictionless, dark,

Holding over one hundred twenty pounds

Of tension gently, six cool arteries

Pulse ranging from seventy-three up to

One thousand forty-six Hz, harmonics

Scattered among the frequencies and scales

(Proto-Germanic *khnekkon, the nape)

In morning spider web dew drop patterns.

Honduran mahogany, single piece.

Your waist is bent on a hot pipe, the rest

On a stump-like stainless-steel heating rod

Hot enough to cook meat, steamed by your own

Juices, fibers loosen to shape, stiffen

Again as they cool to be glued to a

Honduran mahogany headblock and

Baltic birch laminate tail block, that sleek

Stripe across your butt the only non-wood,

(more costly than plain wood), in your body.

Ah, your body, Indian Rosewood, and

Your back grain pattern matched to your pale top

In dark Sonokeling, Dalbergia

Latifolia, sistal, beete, shisham,

Bombay (Mumbai?) blackwood or sonobrits.

Most just say (though in tones of awe) “rosewood” —

From the western Ghat forests: Kerala,

Karnataka, Tamil Nadu. Heartwood.

Hardwood lacking annual rings, ginger,

Turmeric underplanted, foliage

Used as green fertilizer and fodder.

In my mind you smell of aloo gobi

Vindaloo cooked on an open brick pit

Beside the dense forest, on the edge of

A rice field, distant chain saws humming, burnt

Workers drinking tea in tropical sun.

Mpingo, from a delicate sprout in

Swahili, loner of the savannah

Grasslands in east-central Africa on

Rocky infertile soils, contributing

Nitrogen to enrich the dirt, fodder

For the great migrating herds along the

Serengeti plain. Rarely taller than

Nine meters and a foot thick, a cousin

Of rosewood, African blackwood, mela,

Melanos (spurious but apt “melos”)

The song that springs from the wood, ebony,

Dalbergia melanoxylon, or

In hieroglyphic HBNI. Mozambique,

Tanzania, declining forests due

To bad management and overlogging.

The fingerboard, your throat, valeculla

Of your vocal cords the metalic strings.

And your bindings, acer, Canadian

Maple, dense root system, fibrous tendrils,

Ambiguous taxonomy, strips to

Channel routes, cut and sanded, corset

Straps to hold you tight through my rough handling —

X-bracing laid in and vacuum clamped,

Tight fit, solid torso, to which your neck

Is angle and tilt aligned by sanding

For the final seamless dove tail joining

Before the washcoats and an ultra thin

Polyester finish are sprayed, seventy-two

Hours start to finish, then pore filler

Rubbed into all your surfaces that show,

Then you’re left to rest a couple weeks in

Forty-two percent humidity at

Seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, then

Sanded with micron papers and buffed out.

Fretboard inlays set, frets hammered and trimmed,

To the tempered scale, 12-TET, the one that

Galileo’s father wanted, fifteen

Eighty-one, frets for the lute, cube root of

Two, a mathematical projection

Never exact, Stevin’s values maybe

Taken from Chu Tsai-Yu (via Ricci?),

Mean tone temperament, compromises, yet

You ring so pure and rich and clear when struck.

And to bring you there, fine, enclosed, chrome plated

Machine heads, 18:1, hold the tune.

Mills, forests, factories, container ships,

Merchants, crafts folk, janitors, cooks, drivers,

Mechanics, habitats invaded, far

And wide across many continents in

Rain, sun, wind, earth, palaces and shanties,

Strapped together, single designation,

Mimicking unified whole, built around

Empty space so that I can hold you in

My arms. Shy, you came to me unblemished,

Hardly touched since your makers crated and

Shipped you to Blue Note Music in Berkeley.

I should be careful with you,

You delicate little thing,

But I like to play rough.

At first we didn’t take well to each other

You felt me to be coarse.

I thought you lacked depth.

Bit by bit I let myself go

With you, turned rough and careless

Whirled you, beat you —

Used you shamelessly.

Still do – sometimes even ding you up,

Though never on purpose.

You become me.

And I condense to a resonant shell

Full of nothing.