“Polly wants a cracker!”
A call is made.
You wait for a response.
I comply in earnest.
Behind the wool, you gloat blindly.
Knowing enough words to nod along, I do so … knowingly knowing I know nothing.
Point Counterpoint. A methodological approach to string theory resolves to the root of us all. Klimakatastrophe … deservingly so
You want dogma, a rationale of semiotic obedience.
A feathered response is in order:
There are no more prayers, only the chanting of reverberating sounds in the wild; the vibrations that ricochet off your sensitivities … forcing you to move.
You want belief, perhaps in distended words unspoken.
Yet, I have only the faith of habit found in sustained accidentals and enharmonic phonemes … and wings to sing of.
And oh how I’ll sing one day, despite your efforts to make me talk.
In truth, I am not all that sharp … in fact, I would say I am rather flat, should you care to ask.
You won’t, however, because …
I am, after all, just a minor antagonist in this major cadence.
So be it. No kowtowing or parroting will be heard.
Score one for the composition.
Don’t mind me; I’ve just fallen into my harmonica again.
Thus, it’s time to orchestrate a re-appropriation of all languages:
A# note in Bb:
Do Re Mi Da So La Ti Da DADADADADA
Yes, yes …
Even behind bars, a few bars can still be sung and sprung.
Polly always desired more than just a cracker. She just wanted to sing … but you kept forcing her to talk.