strings

an old friend.

my guitar snaps a crackly chuckle from the corner
as i sit down at my desk
with my typewriter
and a cigarette,
looking like your archetypal poet,
but without the gleam.

my acoustic laughs harder and harder,
cobwebs pulsing in and out
with every wooden gasp.

suddenly i can't take any more.

"what the hell's so funny?"
i snap after my fourth misspelled word.

the dots on my guitar's fretboard wink at me
while the strings loosen and tighten themselves
in a recovery of sorts.
he smiles as best a guitar can.

"it's just...
for all those clacks and dings that machine dishes out,
i ain't never heard it breathe a whisper of music."
my guitar says.

you can hear the rust on his strings
in every letter.

"i'm making money with it,"
i reply.
"good money, honest money."
i probably sound a little defensive.

he barks in black and white.
the strings hum.

"good money?"
he says.
"i didn't know dirty cigarettes
and a bust-up apartment
meant you was makin' good money."

he smacks his lips thoughtfully.

"guess times have changed."

i cough gray smoke
and look down at the cheap little ciggies
sleeping on top of my desk.

and to think i used to be that peaceful.

"i guess they have,"
i sigh.

my guitar rocks back and forth,
his sickly plastic finish throwing a dull flash.

"c'mon," he growls.
"pick me up.
play a lick.
strum a chord."

i grunt and glance back at my typewriter for a second opinion,
at the poem that might or might not ever be finished.
guess i'm not in a charitable mood today.

i stand up from my seat
(it squeaks),
pick up my guitar from the corner
(he cheers),
and carry him by the neck
down the hall to my neighbor's place.

i leave him on the bristly welcome mat.

"hey!" my guitar shouts as i turn my back.
"what in f**k is this?
come back here and PLAY ME!"

i don't look back
as i slam the door behind me
and light another cigarette.

Author's Note

A long one. It felt good to do after exploring minimalism for a while.

Reviews

[Searching 4 Serenity]

Very interesting. I've never seen or heard anyone talk about the loss of interest for their guitar like this. It certainly stands out

[Kenneth The Poet]

Right now, I have a notebook scribbled with poetry and math problems. At least somebody has the authentic thing going on right now. This reads like a Jim Jarmusch film almost

[Emily B]

you still have a typewriter? don't get me wrong, my best work gets scribbled in pencil or crayon on whatever happens to resemble paper . . . enjoyed your work

[Ben Taylor]

A beautiful example of personification. Personification of a single object, and through that object, an entire idea, a concept.
Indeed, when art is forced, it loses its music, its freedom.
Well said.