I-Tunes

I think it is a peculiar palindrome that

Rubinstein distilling Rachmaninoff,

earns just as many stars as Switchfoot,

as many stars forward and backwards,

or sidewise and skywards.

And, were I to look at the ratings alone, I could not distinguish a difference,

yet, surely they aren't the same, was the training of R. for nothing that he is of the same caliber as the following letter [S]?

Dear Rubinstein, what are we to do with you?

Forgotten in a mental drawer somewhere,

superseded by centuries who forget Brahms like yesterday's rain. 

Bach is a misspelling, according to the omniscient spellcheck, but Disney is an accurately typed truism.

Somewhere, we've lost the need for shoe polish, 

with our shiny plastic shoes.

Poetry & Pillows

Scanning through the isles, fingering the shelves,

working my way to back of the sunlit side of the store.

Finding delightfully dear books, and realizing I could afford,

not only two lithe books of Billy Collin's poetry,

but Donald Hall's words as well. 

There was a slightly resigned moment, only instants before, where I thought that Hall was out of my reach, but I,

underestimating my temporary monetary worth, was overjoyed to take Hall home to my room, past the hall through the white door, 

that is my room.

The next store was much less mysterious and profound, and so I opted for,

a pillow?

My brother thinks I've lost my reason, 

that it is at last the season,

for the insane asylum,

but it was soft! 

Nothing quite like redeeming, delightfully practical gift-cards

for practical presents,

or isn't poetry practical, after all? 

"You have to listen to yourself!" [play, that is!]

There are few things worse than mechanical, mindless,

poorly played, polyphonic

Bach!

Certainly I can understand my gracious teacher's patient sighs, when she hears my,

oh so very stumbling, fumbling, frightened notes!

I can understand this because, tonight I played a note correctly.

A note? 

A note?

Singular sound?

Indeed, and it was nothing short of intoxicating! 

Trying to roll the melodies off, through my hands, trying to voice two melodies, tying my trying together in the time of half an hour, I had eight minutes to go before I, quite accidently, dropped down on a note. 

Trying cannot masquerade as the real thing when you do the real thing, at home. The note sang, it sounded it rang, through the hallway, or at least my head, and without the tiniest dread, I dropped the note again!

The piano always catches the notes you drop, you have to trust your piano, after all, and not try to carry notes on your own! 

So. Can I play Bach? Is my polyphonic piece shining?

No. It's still a slightly scared, fumbling piece, but tonight I heard an apparition, of Bach to come. 

Gentle Cycle only.

Labels on clothes are liable to sarcastic irony.

Sitting in the hamper, the skirt obviously needs to be soaked in water, 

the pleats replete in confusion.

However,

upon opening the label, it says, “turn over for washing instructions, 

on the other side”

And on turning that over,

DRY CLEAN ONLY

those words and nothing more.

Arranged like the punch-line of a bad joke, all in 

capital letters.

Thus is the life of a label, 

pleased to unload the amount of laundry to be loaded.