Reflections on Music

In the center bedroom I sit hunched

over Alfred’s Guitar Method preparing

for Saturday morning with Mr. Picarelli,

school janitor and guitar teacher at Wurlitzer;

his brother was Billy Haley’s bassist,

making him indeed a Comet.

Then on stereo or FM radio listening

to what I aspire to actually play:

Clapton (reading Beano on Bluesbreaker

Album cover), heading to Disraeli Gears.

Grooving on Hendrix, frenetic or mellow

rotating on an axis bold as love, searching

for the Lost Chord with the Moodies,

relishing old songs with Pentangle and Fairport,

entranced as Zappa blended biting social commentary

with riffs fusing jazz and classical tones.

At those times I transcended all my angst.

For a brief time I stood on stage or

sat in studio with them creating masterpieces.

But a warped Woolworth’s electric fret board

only cuts into not-too dexterous fingers which

actually would better suit a bass guitar.

Someone who can learn vocabulary and

conjugations could certainly memorize the rest

of “I Feel Free” or provide a basis for the

six-string players out front.

By bedtime reality hovers over me,

those dreams are blocked by inability

to buy another guitar with Dad unemployed again

and Mom actually earning more than he was.

College costs money, and I would rather not

bet that I could survive a rice paddy to claim

a GI Bill that actually covered everything.

Pounding the keys on the typewriter

we already owned, I created worlds

beyond wildest imagination, easily making

peace with what I wanted once to do.

On my walls hang Zappa’s framed autograph

and a Hendrix poster among degrees and various

distinctions. The notes and chords I eventually

composed are wholly mine and satisfying.

Content with listening, I compose in my own fashion

and I am content with the way it all turned out.