Shoulders slouched in a Quasimodo pose,
aged streaked hair a mess of gray beauty,
her face contorted in an expression of orgasmic pleasure,
her fragile frame cloaked in silk and shimmering blackness,
destitute and without a care for the voices she hears,
tonight the hall is hers.
The myriad colors bleed their satisfaction and frame this catatonia,
into a seamless fabric of abstract expressionism,
for the minstrel and her henchmen in this conspiracy of noise and art,
posses the spirit of those willing to hear,
their bodies swaying, their eyes closed,
here they remain disciples to every inflection of the artists ‘notes.
She pounds the blacks and whites in organized chaos,
her piano rises amidst a backdrop of declared confusion,
answered by the swirling glissandos of the saxophone,
and echoed by the atonality of the vibraphone,
in this hall the artists are one with each abstraction,
this, a mathematical equation and a solution.
As each artist one becomes one single sound,
she slowly hears the music of her inner voice,
passionate, respondent and stimulated as only one who has tasted
life’s bitter and sweet offerings,
can amalgamate into a curtain of pleasures ,o
of the artists’ pain.
CDF 2009
