To cook is to be in love.
You remember biting
into a fresh plum, like the first
youthful kiss of summer. You recall
that as you accentuate the flavors
and carefully slice the same
sort of plum, in the same way
you would caress the lover
who gave you that kiss
so long ago. There is no end
to the permutations
of such a passionately
begun artifice

I’m happy with what we did,
with what we had
and to be perfectly selfish
my favorite moment
was last night
walking up to Monsignor
in my robes to ask his blessing,
processing to the Pulpit
and chanting the Exsultet
it was like flying

you are asleep I hope
and I hope you never read this
and I hope you delete it tomorrow when you wake up
you know what,
never mind
I will submit a prayer:

until the day that you both
inevitably disappoint
each other
and rediscover
that the word is meaningless anyway
if it gets that far,
and if not perhaps
so much the more
painful
oddly

One night something odd happened.
There was one piece by D’Anglebert
his “Tombeau de M. de Charbonierres”.
A “tombeau” is an instrumental piece,
literally translating to “tombstone”.
It is intended to be a memorial piece
for a beloved
or even just a friend.

His is the only one in his oeuvre, and in
3/2 instead of the usual duple meter
that suggests a funeral procession

That night, for some reason,
as I turned the page
I had a funny thought: “Ha, I wonder
if he is remembering, (as I freshly did),
having to practice
VERY slowly.”
While I was playing I looked
at the tempo indication, a rare thing

“Fort, lentement”–“strong, slowly.”

I held the tiny harpsichord
I remembered spurning it over the years
for not having two keyboards,
for the strings often snapping,
for the plectrums being made out of cheap plastic;
none of that mattered now. I held it
tenderly
consoling it as if we were both
shedding the warm tears of humility
In the cold basement

God made so full of uncommon, unmatchef things
There must be a compliment
Just as the stars are only as beautiful
as the void that makes them bright
There is someone
I can’t believe it is otherwise.
*God made you
*unmatched

Did you ever sit out before the sun comes up?
Just before he pokes his face…
There is a bird that believes
the overture has just ended outside my kitchen
and sings and sings
to the lover that never responds
but he sings as if he has known her, and loved her
and as if she is worthy of a ballad of such splendor
that he will sing again tomorrow
with redoubled brilliance
because everyday is a new chance to win
the love he has never seen.

it takes a steady hand
and patience
two things I previously thought I didn’t have
but there was something so relaxing about it
slash, loving
I felt like I was stitching up my friend’s wound
so that we could keep playing together

I always wonder
sometimes at night when I’m scared
…in 500 years
if Opera is still an artform
will Game of Thrones be an Opera?
it terrifies me
or Harry Potter?

I never used to like spring until
I realized that all of the birds
start coming to life, and singing
much earlier than the sun.

This is not unlike the behavior of monks,
who rise strategically before dawn.
God’s first choirs must have thus
affected their human counterparts.