Meditation on Steve Reich's New York Counterpoint
drops of paint hit a white canvas
almost dripping from the sky in an
endless collage of rain.
over and over the same beating
hit
hit
hit
on a miraculous tapestry.
Soon the machine gun turns to dust and the cloud
sifts to a dense texture of peaceful statement: We are insignificant.
We are special.
I feel the pressure of the cloud on my brain as I surround myself with gold
pushing the cloud out and make myself a bubble.
My bubble flies into the sky and joins with the air. I am suspended in the air.
I am witnessing the world.
I am the world.
I am.
I world.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
1924.
Clarinet jam.
New York City.
Cloudy New York.
Surrounded by water.
Forgotten.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Forgotten.
Lamenting in its ecstasy.
Such a disparity.
Hit.
Hit.
A club on 44th street and broadway.
Playing the hit tunes of the day.
Forgotten hitting.
The Canvas has so much paint on it that the paint has devoured the canvas.
The paint eats the canvas.
I cry.
Forgotten.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Cloudy forgetfulness. Nature never remembers.
Nature judges.
I look up.
I see the cloudy sky.
The tiniest bit of sun peaks through.
No more dripping.
I smile.
