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2004-01-28

Johannes Brahms
B. 5.7.1833 Hamburg / D. 4.3.1897 Vienna
Chill

Good grief
Maybe it’s true what they say about the dopamine receptors. I go to feel fine
my head hurts
and for absolutely no reason, I can’t. There’s me—or here, this is me
a dry throbbing
and in the apartment with me is the Second Symphony of Brahms. At first I thought it was the horns
from sinus to earlobe, the long way round
but it’s the strings that have awoken me to my plight. Here’s me, a string
my optic nerves stretched like a jet plane’s trail
and there, the next string over, is Brahms—or any pleasure, really—and in between is air. A quarter inch
my jaws like trees that crucify my paratrooper teeth
a half-inch interval in space is all that separates us but it’s endless, endless everything. So here’s my pen—that is, the bow
cooking odors cooking odors—respiration itself brings remorse to the stay-at-home diner
trailing cat hair; here is back and forth, here are delicate wrist motions and obscure adjustments. The space between me and my pleasure fills. . .but there’s no passage.

Consolation Site: Let us at least try

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