Hear Mark Dow read “Home” here.

Home

There's literally nothing going on:
	Nicki Minaj’s rhythms are lame.
	I played them Schubert’s Trout Quintet
		but shouldn’t have quite yet.
			They just complained.

They go, “This shit is wack! Just turn it off!”
	I tell them, “Hey, philosophy
	in music’s more than we can put 
		in words.” I must be nuts.
			They laughed at me.

Is there a chance they’re just putting you on?
	Not a chance. And how do you teach
	someone who doesn’t want to listen
		to listen? Listen, it’s an
			itch you can’t reach —

But theirs or yours? Frustration gets you off.
	You really think I’m that fucked up?
	You just can’t tolerate their taste.
		We’re old but haven’t faced
			it. That’s abrupt.

Look it: Nicki Minaj is thirty-one,
	nine years older than Schubert was
	when he wrote that. Rhythm’s not
		just connecting the dots.
			We count because

We walk, talk, breathe, blink, love, fuck, die: on, off.
	Harmonic tissue in the mean
	time unfolds as it separates,
		connects and conversates
			what’s in between.

Recently, though, and more and more often,
	it’s unclear who says what to whom
	or even, really, what gets said —
		if we tangled the thread
			or got led home.

What you said about how I get off on
	trying what’s most impossible:
	they might, if they carried the tunes
		inside, feel less alone
			in life is all. 

Mark Dow | Declaration
Contents | Mudlark No. 59 (2015)