The weapon

October 23rd, 2013

Forge the weapon from brass. Brass of inscribed plates, second hand instruments, statues pulled down by changing regimes. Brass of indefinite ages, indiscernible dedications, soaked with sounds, that could not quite make it, abused by birdshit, whether noble or monstrous.
Keep the pieces in a barn or some other undivided house space. Let them taste each other. So as to make the great poet who lived on the street of Paris feel the cold of the plate that a homeless woman used as a rug when begging. So as to let the notes of Coltrane wannabe, who ended up as a an underpaid carpenter, rush out through the holes of unfinished series of cups. Let them mingle. Hell! Put them by the nearest river on a wet grass. Till they shiver, till they shine. Bang them by throwing pieces off the rocks. Pile them into the trailer and pour out in a city square, wait a time it takes you to finish off couple shots of whisky. Don’t force it. Let them open up as they come.
A scientist can wait, a trumpet can signal the place of their transformation. be patient, be passionate. Resilient in your work, joyous in a night vision. Let the pieces form a net, a brotherhood.
They will let you know, when they are warm enough to join together, without dissolving in the excess of the heat.
Watch saxophone slowly acquiring fingers, a head turning into the table. Laugh, if you feel like, at the childish amusement of the pieces as they make love to each other, get to be each other.
Don’t hold anything back, let the ones, which happen to be on a way of leaving, go .
Watch closely as they form cells of various kinds, learn the formlessness of its path. The degree of success will depend on your knowledge of the life it took the brass pieces to become flexible and stealthy.
Have a beer, for the speed of fluttering builds up. Shake the rust off. Breathe the skies. Comes the time, when you won’t be alone, ever. Enjoy the approaching cool.
Smile, sister, it senses what you mean.

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