Music As An Alternative To Hurt

it has been months
since he has
breathed any-thing
but music and he has forsaken
lovers for his violin

(lying beside
him when (does not) is)sleeping

the world is much better
that way he

(does even though he
will not)imagine

smooth open mouths and a dry
touch at the nape of his neck is a night-time Thing.
the Soviets have begun
rebuilding now that they
are finally gone and he does
not comprehend the nature of debts to be repaid.

his vision is now eddies and
whirlwinds of written notes some-
one told him once to paint what
he plays; that is far from possible
because the color of his music is
the Danube at midnight when he is
drunken and weaving thru' the
docksides the color of the morning
behind the parliament building
or a piece of his hair loose and
stringing from his bed sheets.

(there was an artist supple of hand and darkish hair falling over his eyes a Russian that was long) ago

and music
is singular
now that
entity of his
nights when
bruised he finally
goes over the scars
from his daily crucifixions
the crosses at symphony
halls or street corners

and once he was arrested for burning paintings in a city park and he would not leave his violin when the uniformed officers bade him to:
some-thing can become that entwined---
the heavy halls of ivy where he goes when he sleeps

(he had wept then now only the music makes him)weep

and learning then
there are fewer
things to live for
but to see the scars
upon gashed
morning or a
night sky with
a few less stars

his best suit
(the one he uses
when he) performs
still smells of
burning oil pants,

canvas