The orchestra buzzes and blares
straining to be symphonic inside its tin box.
Here and there, molecules of sound are tweaked
until they are as iridescent as insect wings.

Who was there? Not I, but were you not there?
Before the radio flew away
were you there with eyes glued to our ears?

The mind warps eras
Michelangelo has gone to Hollywood
to sketch the Creation on a paper napkin.
Rachmaninov is too immeasurable for the glitter,
his hands too large for the cul-de-sacs
of dignified minds.

The piano is clearly painted, deep brittle
and booming. He pulls 1940 out of its belly
serving it up as fresh as deli ham.

His percussive fingerprints slam-dunk.
A tintinnabulum quakes through time,
painting the chimes of Russian bells
a vast vesper outgrowing each decade
locked now within a CD, only millimeters thin.














(C) Eric Ashford August 08