Quarter to Eight

Listen to music religiously, as if it were the last strain you might hear.

spirits a-flutter

smooth like melted butter

higher and higher highs

notes hypnotize

tickled ivories and strummed catguts mesmerize

lighting up night skies

inhale it if you will

just you try to keep your feet still

manna from heaven

takin' off like a boeing 747

fingers pickin'

piano keys clickin'

melody juicing my gait

soul conflagrates

never too late

no need to wait

thank you brothers

and it's only quarter to eight

Author's Note

“I sailed on the North River last night with my flute, and my music was a tinkling stream which meandered with the river, and fell from note to note as a brook from rock to rock. I did not hear the strains after they had issued from the flute, but before they were breathed into it, for the original strain precedes the sound by as much as the echo follows after, and the rest is the perquisite of the rocks and trees and beasts. Unpremeditated music is the true gauge which measures the current of our thoughts, the very undertow of our life's stream.” - Thoreau