A Note on Glass

Fools write you off as just repetition.

Life is repetition and you are life.

The blue-green planet spins in rhythm

with your whirling dervish arpeggios.

You soundtrack my downtown schlep

Essex becomes the River Styx.

I keep a quarter for a monocle to pay my dues.

This non-diegetic cue rouses the hairs

On the neck of my soul.


I am firmly rooted in the present

A terra-cotta pot soaking in the rippling streams

and babbling brooks of Philip Glass’

glass half full joie de vivre.

The detail on permanent vacation in my synapses—no,

Not the cab driving story or the moving business he ran with Reich—

is the only part I remember from the doc. Glass: A Portrait of Philip in Twelve

Parts. His wife at the time (no idea if they’re still together) said he was

Just like a kid.

I didn’t need her to

Suggest boyishness;

I know it when I hear it.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Ostinato? No.

Nor ostentatious.

He makes me like lachrymose Niobe

with simple phrases he weaves in and out

with the verve of a bird building a home,

lost in the pleasure of song.