Con fuoco

Black and white rows gently curve,
Cupping the conductor, who motions
Arrogantly with his left hand to the
Timpani. I do not like him, this
Emotionless drone, leading my
Favorite flautist and the striking
Piccolo and the always red-faced
About-to-burst trombone and the
New snare drummer and all the rest ā€“
Cellos and violins and bassoons.
He does not seem to feel the allegro;
He does not even look alive. Music
Pours from veins and lungs and
Tendons. It vibrates in the birth
Canal and thrusts with the penis.
Cerebral though the score may be,
Unless the notes pulse through
The blood to the rest of the body,
They will not survive beyond this
Moment ā€“ when the conductor sets
Down his baton, steps offstage,
And disappears.

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