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Ars Poetica Harmonica
Call me aerophone. Call me free-reed. I am the song's honey-comb: on nostalgia's star-flied, toe-tapped, steamy-screened- in porch, I bay to your blind uncle's fretting banjo as magnolias float bandshells of globed, ten-hole notes;
& your dead mother, on dream's phone, pining as you keep trying, what's wrong?, what's wrong? I am waking's hung-up-on dial tone, that flat-line buzz in the blood, & your alarm clock's whooping siren.
Call me diatonic. Call me chromatic. I am the drunk angel's mouth-harp, palm-organ in your hand's trembling steeple, each channel searching the strayed way to your lost god, tongue-shaped reeds choiring in the wind's church;
& field-psalm for soldiers in gravel's uniform, my black notes, your flags luffing at taps' half-mast.
Call me tremolo. Tongue-block, finger-sigh, over-bend into glissando, & call me lickin' stick, tin sandwich, call me Mississippi sax: drawn, I wheeze an asthmatic's bluesroom gasp; blown, I am the green-throated hollers in the broken beer bottles of your trashed adolescence, fuck's Ohhh baby that kicks holes in your bedroom's sheetrock;
& sucked back: your cheek's swollen wineskins, the bottled walls of hookah's water-smoke—I am release's lung-punched bliss. Cured in skin & soul I am, I am the breath in your bones.
Glenn Morazzini
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:hi:
RL
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