04-18-2021, 07:28 AM
I.
I swing the oscillating doors to the opera house.
A selection of different compositions play now.
The needless whistling inside the edifice of crowds.
Leaving with a distinct array of voices singing.
The house of where sopranos and baritones lay.
Down the line of endless musings and verbiage.
I wonder if the chanting and singing from people.
Are what I desire, what I crave, what I seek.
Even though I am here at the Vienna Opera House.
It still seems like I am seeking composition to scavenge.
The missing lines of this song, the piano concerto.
The 42nd part of Schoenberg, or others if I find them.
I go home and rummage through my belongings.
Wondering if the notes I laid under my dusty bed.
Are coinciding with what I had before.
Then with another swing at the box.
I noticed there was something inside the exterior.
II.
There I wondered if there was any hope to know.
About what these notes have to pertain to.
I know music has a way of soothing the brain.
And how I feel when I have nothing to say.
But I do find classical music beautiful and rhythmic.
That I only want to articulate how my feelings go.
When it comes to an ocean of musical musings.
Then when I take the time to stretch out the paper.
Where the lives of people wrote out these notes.
And when I seek out the people, they disappear.
Then if I had any consolation to wonder the bizarre.
They, the people, had to shove flies in my face.
I wondered about the concert and the music.
After I left, perhaps there was another.
Then in the forefront of this strange endeavor.
I had the chance to make amends with conductor.
The name Hans Schoenberg to analyze his song.
Perhaps tinkle with it, make it stronger than it is.
He’ll look at me strangely, like he’s never met me.
Then I’d show him my notes, the extension of myself.
Then he might just burn the work, pin me down.
Like a burly wrestler, have him speak about it.
What do I do about the tension between us?
Hans is strangely attracted to the way I stride.
Off the stage when he practices with his choir.
III.
When I go back home on a windy afternoon day.
My head held down, looking north in Vienna.
The people scrape me by like I was mincemeat.
How I never had the courage to ask them why.
But before I take my leave, I make sure they burn.
Burn for the fact that they have wronged me.
They told me I was a genius and a great painter.
But no, I was denied, my career was obliterated.
For now, I will see to dealing with the Concerto
The whole concerto will never have to come
Out of the winding sidewalks revealing itself.
The blessings of daybreak onto my face.
When I have too much to carry, I tend to cry.
About the concerto and the hardship of day.
I leave the people with disbelief when I make.
Time to shred these compositions in front of them.
Must I lift these hands and show them hate.
Of the paper I carry around with me?
Of course, I am going to shred them.
And I will make plans to burn down the concert.
I hate the conductor; I hate Hans Schoenberg.
The city of Vienna will know my struggle.
Like I was a defiant dictator with a small moustache.
The fact that I am a rebel to overthrow the music.
The fact that I am going to prevail in time.
When I got home, I made a meal, and sank to bed.
Thinking about the glittering of fingers playing.
I wish I could play the piano I thought.
Then I spring into my bed, I headed to my desk.
Writing about how I was going to burn the house.
The opera house, and the teetering of my hands.
Like I was lifting weight for meat.
The house had a lingering scent of Schnitzel.
My wife had been cooking for awhile.
The hours go by, I eat, look up to the ceiling.
I see particles of dust; I hear chamber music.
IV.
Where was it coming from? I wondered.
Was there a tantalizing sound in another room?
I asked my wife, I was desperate, I need clarity.
She said what’s the big deal, the house was quiet.
I hurried upstairs and found the music box.
It was playing classical music from the grammar phone.
I closed it, heading down the stairs, the attic.
From which I came from it closed itself.
Why do I feel like screaming from the balcony?
(I think it is time for an attic makeover)
What do I do about my wife’s cooking?
She makes so much food, it hurts my stomach.
She cooks only to make conversation about music.
But when she finds out about the burning of the concertos.
I will forever be laughing through her pain.
(Yes, I am a cynic and I know why I do it)
After night is through, I head back to my chamber.
And conspire to take over the concerto.
If all else fails, I will go to jail as an incredible man.
V.
If I were arrested, I worry about getting raped.
In the shower like one of those American fables.
The kind where you end up in a penitentiary.
And there are jail buddies filling you up.
That would be scary, as a man, I would tremble.
To the fear, I would scurry like a mouse.
Wondering to Jesus, what would I do?
Perhaps if I got up earlier, I wouldn’t miss torturing.
The squirrels up in the trees, or my day job.
But afterwards I would get to that house, that hellhole.
And gasoline up that joint, burning this concerto away.
Like I was meant to do, I was meant to destroy.
Like such institutionalized places like schools.
But for now, I’ll remain laser-focused on the Opera House.
Attempting to kill the audience and the conductor.
VI.
When I was little, there was a bright light in my way.
I thought about that light, what it does to me.
The tingling sensation on my skin, not to burn.
And where I feel safe, I felt cleansed in the house.
I remember when was little, there were candles.
Being lit around the house, we left the concerto.
Before that, then after I had my first vomit.
It landed into my hands; I want revenge for waiting.
So long at the Vienna house for the music to start.
I wasn’t amused or bewildered at all for songs.
The composition was tiring to hear, for years.
I wished the conductor would just retire, just please.
Retire for me for once I thought, and I would close.
My hands and pray for the day it occurs.
Then with a whistle blow in the air, I go to sleep.
VII.
The night ends, I would come by the house.
I would slumber by the bathroom stall.
Swoop like a bird waiting for the opera to start.
Then things would take an exciting beginning.
I would see the crowd sitting in a semi-circle.
They wait for the conductor to commence.
If the orchestra plays, Hans fingers will burn.
In fact: I have oil and a match, greetings arson.
I hope everyone watches the house scorch.
The house will be locked, I have the key.
I wait for them to find a cushion to sit on.
For now, though, I will be patient and see.
I swing the oscillating doors to the opera house.
A selection of different compositions play now.
The needless whistling inside the edifice of crowds.
Leaving with a distinct array of voices singing.
The house of where sopranos and baritones lay.
Down the line of endless musings and verbiage.
I wonder if the chanting and singing from people.
Are what I desire, what I crave, what I seek.
Even though I am here at the Vienna Opera House.
It still seems like I am seeking composition to scavenge.
The missing lines of this song, the piano concerto.
The 42nd part of Schoenberg, or others if I find them.
I go home and rummage through my belongings.
Wondering if the notes I laid under my dusty bed.
Are coinciding with what I had before.
Then with another swing at the box.
I noticed there was something inside the exterior.
II.
There I wondered if there was any hope to know.
About what these notes have to pertain to.
I know music has a way of soothing the brain.
And how I feel when I have nothing to say.
But I do find classical music beautiful and rhythmic.
That I only want to articulate how my feelings go.
When it comes to an ocean of musical musings.
Then when I take the time to stretch out the paper.
Where the lives of people wrote out these notes.
And when I seek out the people, they disappear.
Then if I had any consolation to wonder the bizarre.
They, the people, had to shove flies in my face.
I wondered about the concert and the music.
After I left, perhaps there was another.
Then in the forefront of this strange endeavor.
I had the chance to make amends with conductor.
The name Hans Schoenberg to analyze his song.
Perhaps tinkle with it, make it stronger than it is.
He’ll look at me strangely, like he’s never met me.
Then I’d show him my notes, the extension of myself.
Then he might just burn the work, pin me down.
Like a burly wrestler, have him speak about it.
What do I do about the tension between us?
Hans is strangely attracted to the way I stride.
Off the stage when he practices with his choir.
III.
When I go back home on a windy afternoon day.
My head held down, looking north in Vienna.
The people scrape me by like I was mincemeat.
How I never had the courage to ask them why.
But before I take my leave, I make sure they burn.
Burn for the fact that they have wronged me.
They told me I was a genius and a great painter.
But no, I was denied, my career was obliterated.
For now, I will see to dealing with the Concerto
The whole concerto will never have to come
Out of the winding sidewalks revealing itself.
The blessings of daybreak onto my face.
When I have too much to carry, I tend to cry.
About the concerto and the hardship of day.
I leave the people with disbelief when I make.
Time to shred these compositions in front of them.
Must I lift these hands and show them hate.
Of the paper I carry around with me?
Of course, I am going to shred them.
And I will make plans to burn down the concert.
I hate the conductor; I hate Hans Schoenberg.
The city of Vienna will know my struggle.
Like I was a defiant dictator with a small moustache.
The fact that I am a rebel to overthrow the music.
The fact that I am going to prevail in time.
When I got home, I made a meal, and sank to bed.
Thinking about the glittering of fingers playing.
I wish I could play the piano I thought.
Then I spring into my bed, I headed to my desk.
Writing about how I was going to burn the house.
The opera house, and the teetering of my hands.
Like I was lifting weight for meat.
The house had a lingering scent of Schnitzel.
My wife had been cooking for awhile.
The hours go by, I eat, look up to the ceiling.
I see particles of dust; I hear chamber music.
IV.
Where was it coming from? I wondered.
Was there a tantalizing sound in another room?
I asked my wife, I was desperate, I need clarity.
She said what’s the big deal, the house was quiet.
I hurried upstairs and found the music box.
It was playing classical music from the grammar phone.
I closed it, heading down the stairs, the attic.
From which I came from it closed itself.
Why do I feel like screaming from the balcony?
(I think it is time for an attic makeover)
What do I do about my wife’s cooking?
She makes so much food, it hurts my stomach.
She cooks only to make conversation about music.
But when she finds out about the burning of the concertos.
I will forever be laughing through her pain.
(Yes, I am a cynic and I know why I do it)
After night is through, I head back to my chamber.
And conspire to take over the concerto.
If all else fails, I will go to jail as an incredible man.
V.
If I were arrested, I worry about getting raped.
In the shower like one of those American fables.
The kind where you end up in a penitentiary.
And there are jail buddies filling you up.
That would be scary, as a man, I would tremble.
To the fear, I would scurry like a mouse.
Wondering to Jesus, what would I do?
Perhaps if I got up earlier, I wouldn’t miss torturing.
The squirrels up in the trees, or my day job.
But afterwards I would get to that house, that hellhole.
And gasoline up that joint, burning this concerto away.
Like I was meant to do, I was meant to destroy.
Like such institutionalized places like schools.
But for now, I’ll remain laser-focused on the Opera House.
Attempting to kill the audience and the conductor.
VI.
When I was little, there was a bright light in my way.
I thought about that light, what it does to me.
The tingling sensation on my skin, not to burn.
And where I feel safe, I felt cleansed in the house.
I remember when was little, there were candles.
Being lit around the house, we left the concerto.
Before that, then after I had my first vomit.
It landed into my hands; I want revenge for waiting.
So long at the Vienna house for the music to start.
I wasn’t amused or bewildered at all for songs.
The composition was tiring to hear, for years.
I wished the conductor would just retire, just please.
Retire for me for once I thought, and I would close.
My hands and pray for the day it occurs.
Then with a whistle blow in the air, I go to sleep.
VII.
The night ends, I would come by the house.
I would slumber by the bathroom stall.
Swoop like a bird waiting for the opera to start.
Then things would take an exciting beginning.
I would see the crowd sitting in a semi-circle.
They wait for the conductor to commence.
If the orchestra plays, Hans fingers will burn.
In fact: I have oil and a match, greetings arson.
I hope everyone watches the house scorch.
The house will be locked, I have the key.
I wait for them to find a cushion to sit on.
For now, though, I will be patient and see.
