A child. Alone in their room.
A half broken music box pierces
the air with magic. A
lullaby. Christmas Eve. Anticipation.
Drums sound before a piano plays,
interrupted by heavy sounds. Motor
engines roar. Street racing. Adrenaline.
Power. A fight breaks out
between the beats. Leather jackets
drag race up and down the street.
Rebels. Got style. Got swagger. Trash
can music blares from where we, the poor
people live. Junk music performed by
dreadlocks. Cops fight crime in the
distance. A voice serenades the crowds
underneath a glorious, domed
ceiling. Rich men smoke cigars in
a boardroom. They sit back. They
relax. The child alone in its room learns
piano, a classical expression of emotion.
Two women sit hand-in-hand, side-by-side
in a hotel room. The TV is tuned to the news
but it is indecipherable. One woman turns to
her lover, moistens her lips, and says
“Kiss me.” There are no moments
for the other team to shout over, no hostile
words in a setting so sweet. Just the joy
of lips vacuum packed to lips. The crowd
begins to cheer, protest banners are lit,
the world continues to turn. Magic is more
than a box of tricks in child’s bedroom, don’t
you think? It’s the grasp of a broken
hand in a splint made from the stolen air
of a hotel room where room service forgot
the salt. Hotel rooms always smell of empty
film classes and broken camera lenses. It’s
the expense forms that line the building
with sustenance, and the hearts of a thousand
lovers, torn from their homes and forced
to re-enact something close to acceptance
in a steel tube, some fifty miles below the
surface of Jupiter’s third moon.
– Aaron Kent
A whole life is spent by answering
I have spent my whole life answering questions.
I have spent my whole life answering my questions.
I have spent my whole life answering her questions.
Why am I answering this question?
You do not know?
– Teige Maddison