People who don’t listen to music park their cars in front of
fire hydrants. People who don’t listen to music develop repetitive stress disorders
such as Dyspeptic Political Identity. People who don’t listen to music lament
the idle swells of “steely gray clouds” dimming the north-northwest. They
wander through the lobby in search of the lobby. They perch like slumbering
owls, one-legged, on marble staircases. They marvel at the defunct telephone
booth, the handset dangling off the hook, the dial-tone expired. People who don’t
listen to music struggle at the vending machine, their currency upside down,
their intended treat manacled by the tight coil of the apparatus. People who
don’t listen to music suck imported, boutique plum pits. People who don’t listen
to music scoff at the buttered onion! They attend registration drives in
circular parks but withdraw after discovering that they won’t receive a gift,
such as a four-slice toaster or a festive doilies four-pack. They gnaw on the
principles of other generations even as the principles of other generations
gnaw on them, “gnaw, man”, says a jokester from a jokester generation, but the
wordplay carouses briefly, glancing off a plate-glass window. They monitor their
carotid arteries during periods of inactivity, often with concerning results,
such as mule-kick pulses or blender-on-pulse, pulses. People who don’t listen
to music listen to people who don’t listen to music. They clasp their hands
like “hurrahs”, only they won’t raise these “hurrahs” over their heads, and
their hands, unclasping, approximate the weary countries of sequestration.
complaint week 2015
editorial schedule:
October 26: The Democrat Machine
October 27: Artists and Writers Who Say “My Work”
October 28: GWU Fires Adjunct Creative Writing Faculty
October 29: Washington, D.C. Manchester City Bros
October 30: People Who Don't Listen to Music
14 comments:
You are wise beyond your ears, Sir Dan.
So long as I'm not being cheesy, i.e., "ears of corn." Thanks for the kind words, Sir. Up the Swans!
----------------b.a.
as a boy and young man i went to gnaw bone camp in nashville, indiana.
everybody called it "the bone". nobody called it "the gnaw". -- casey
i had a geometry teacher named mrs bone but she didn't run a camp -- i called her mrs bone but others called her bone! -------ba
I had a friend once with the surname "Haight" which he pronounced "hate". He worked at a movie theatre, manning the refreshments stand, and for that engagement he wore a nametag "Mr. Hate" because he found it ensured people would say his name correctly while at the same time forcing children to buy their goodies from "Mr. Hate"'. He hated it when people said Height instead of Hate, although he was particularly short, he could've been taller. Although he could be short, particularly when you didn't call him Hate.
--Utenzil
I know people who listen only to the preacher and the Wall Street Journal. Is the Wall Street Journal the kind of music you mean by music?
What about people who listen to bad music?
Utenzil -- that's a fine report, thanks. We were stuck on Bone and you got us off that, onto Haight / Hate / Height. Where is he now? one wonders. Hopefully nobody's Hating on him. Hopefully nobody's Heighting on him.
-----------------BA
Mark,
I wish I could get a poem into The Wall Street Journal but their aesthetic is too much Fleece Every Butt They Can. I think that's a song of theirs anyhow. The preacher can surprise you every so often -- crossing over into rock n roll on occasion, with devastating impact. Only problem is, they get fired once they go back into shepherding. They get a #26 hit in 1962, but nobody hears from them ever again and they might be alive now -- or not -- but nobody knows for sure.
--------------------BA
T.P.W.,
You speak of the Republicans, yes? Well, I lump them in here, too. You can't even get a hurrah outta them, just "procedural roadblocks."
----------------------------BA
Sometimes people hear thunder when music's not enough.
Such Sweet Thunder (album), Duke Ellington, (1957), based on the works of one William Shakespeare, hoy hoy, praps this is the sweet thunder you speak of, Hthr, hoy hoy.
-------------------------BA
He was ironically successful, actually, having risen to great heights. I'd like to low as how he didn't hate the heights.
-Utenzil
Utenzil with the puns! Thanks, man. Good stuff.
-------------------BA
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