Is it black and white to you,
the silence vs. the beat?
Do you find yourself or lose yourself in it,
are you the interruption,
are you materializing something
out of nothing?
Describe to me that power.
When you take your place up on that stage
and your drumsticks out of your pocket
are you brandishing redemption
or defying it?
Does perfection sound like faithfulness
to the rhythm, or is that
more like revolution?
Are your performances shaped like intentions,
or is it your strength coming into itself
through reckless abandon?
And do you feel the weight of the music
as it moves its warm body against
the surface you have lain down,
does it feel responsorial,
the strings caressing the cadence
the cadence returning the favor
stroke for stroke?
Does it ever seem like you are carrying
a keyboard’s catalog of moans
in your arms, across the threshold,
ready to undress it?
Do you thrill at the lyrics throbbing
against your masterful fingers,
helplessly following the lead
of your strong, steady hands?
Does breaking the pauses like no one else can
feel to you like possession,
do you pin the song against the wall
to show her who’s boss?
Do any of the verses stick to your skin,
drench you in heat and longing,
that the imagery spills on
your subconscious like perfume?
What does passion look like to a drummer?
What does freedom? What does surrender?
Do you also love in patterns
of touch and trancelike timing,
do you fuck freestyle?
Would I have a better chance speaking to you
in the language of sustained intensity
or the language of muscle memory?
Has your soul ever been struck so hard
the hollowness inside you reverberated for days
and the ensuing silence felt like
a heartache and a wait?
Mine has. The words have been
hitting different ever since.