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The Keyboardist
| Open Poetry #38 |
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The Keyboardist |
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Edward Grim Senior Member
since 2005-12-18
Posts 1154Greenville, South Carolina 
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The Keyboardist He jazzed down the street and all that wasn’t, would be. If it wasn’t groovy, it would be… His hands were wrapped in condoms (for ultimate protection) and on top were red velvet gloves, to smooth the look. The condoms were a bit extreme but so was he. His piano setting was at “Snare drum,” which acted as a Yankee doodle metronome to his stride as he marched limping on one leg, lugging around his precious Casio. He felt empowered, like a dictator, not quite Hitler but more than Il Duce. He was Napoleon. … West Side story: boys on top of cars with flippy knives and greased duck butts. Not only the flippies but shivs, chains and brass knuckles- full street arsenal. Onward he walked, swaying back and forth from the limp with the method of Ray Charles. Snare drum beating fear into the birds. With every pulsing pound a blackbird would drop to its death. The Keyboardist walking the road lined with dead birds. The road to glory, laced with brazen onyx plumage. Never a better fitting to fight. Hit repeat, the drums continued on with the repetition button while he switched settings to the piccolo. He was conducting wartime tunes on the keyboard strapped to his back. The high-pitched piccolo seeped through the ear canals of all dogs on the block. Yelping and howling ensued. Dead dogs bite no mailman. Blackbirds died, dogs already dead. But still he hobbled on. He was met by a score of foes. 50’s rebels- All-stars converse… Jeans… And black leather jackets. Daggers, bats and combs… The Keyboardist, no mathematician, remembered the Alamo! Odds, to him, meant only people lower than his mightiness, not enemies and fear. Face off… Gloves off, condoms off… Snare and piccolo on pattern repeat. Setting on French horn… Charge. Batman sound effects filled the cul-de-sac. The Keyboardist? Picasso on the asphalt. The Gang? Walked away with bloody shoes, after re-combing and re-lubricating their do’s. Into the sunset’s orange peel red-foot-printing all the way. The Keyboardist, no more… He inched towards his battered friend, and set it to violins, volume up, and the chorus rang onward. I'm not smart, I'm just a tricky dumb person. |
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| © Copyright 2006 Edward Grant - All Rights Reserved | |||
Midnitesun
since 2001-05-18
Posts 28647Gaia |
quote: and for many other lines such as quote:  |
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suthern
since 1999-07-29
Posts 20723Louisiana |
I think he lives near me... and comes home about 3 am every morning... leaving hopes of sleep as dead as those birds. *G* I liked this a lot... very gripping! *S* |
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