Making Music (Or Trying To)

Perched on my leg as I’m perched on a chair,
another person.
Head, neck, body, an extension of my own,
nylon veins pulled tight atop wooden bones,
tuned delicately, a twist of a peg from snapping,
descending Eddie Ate Dynamite Good Bye Eddie
a phrase my first and last teacher used to say with a smile.
It’s one of the few things I remember still as I strum downwards,
each vein chiming from thick to thin before I jump into something bolder.
An arrangement of tones forming patterns,
Forming music.
Pouring outwards like a dam waiting on a G-chord key
(or battering ram).
I’m learning alone now
large fingers tracing frets like an elephant skipping over Skittle-sized stepping stones
aiming and often failing for precision as strings shorten,
sending clumsy vibrations rippling downwards,
trickling over a bridge and into a black hole
only to re-emerge golden,
Bouncing Off The Walls by Sugarcult.
The first song I wanted to learn to play well enough and did
(sort of).
From these walls far better musicians watch,
and wonder why I keep playing the same Arctic Monkeys riff
505 times in a row until the sun goes down.
I prefer it to Greensleeves
(or the keyboard)


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