Rhapsodizing Confusion
He sits there rhapsodizing,
Music going
On and on,
Theme scarcely clear.
What he needs in an arrangement,
Inner order,
Something to hang on to,
An internal girder, welder, builder,
Candor, some reminder to bind
A to b to c to d and finally to z:
An end and means to send it,
End it.
Is it rhapsody, improvisation?
His seems like bewilderment and misperception
Fueled by laidback lack of fire
Fused by movement going nowhere.
He thinks he was Socrates,
Calls it jazz.
We drown in his repose.
I think if I were in his clothes
I’d agonize, I’d make some noise.
No, he keeps on and on,
Just playing, rhapsodizing
In confusion.
Rhapsodizing Confusion 8.14.2012
Vaguely About Music II;
Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 