I Am Bad at Piano
I am bad at piano. My fingers rest on two keys. The high keys get in the way. When I don’t want them to.
Sometimes my piano is so bad. Earplugs. Complaints with the police. I have used both on myself. I have broken piano strings.
They snap in the center, away from the hammers.
If I am to always be bad at piano I want to know whether Cho—— or Schu—— or Tcha—— could draw. Could they put pace on a ball, could they cook mussels with a proper broth. I read Rach—— was excellent at cards.
His enormous hands.
If you could be bad at piano would you want another hobby? Would you want to know politics or how to build a bower from dominos? Would you not rather sit in a room of statues and play the bad piano?
And if so what do you keep inside.
And if I were to get an animal. Fish have short memories. A bird could make a path of songs over my bad-playing fingers. And yet I bought a cylinder of dragonflies which flit and patrol the room.
The neighbors have a piano. They are older and the piano is only played at Christmas. They tell me Art Tat—— visited them once and played a nine note run, as they say, with his right hand. They often replay those nine notes. I crouch in my hall and listen.
There is a man who sells old pianos. Once I rode along. I rode in the back and played the piano until we reached the edge of town. There was a grove of apple trees and a hedge of roses. We rolled the piano to the side of the hedge and left it. That night someone drilled a hole in the piano and let a tree grow through and expand.