Fugue

I.
When my bungee cord
was severed without asking
plunging me head first
into this prefabricated world ––
A loose strand
made of another cloth
to be woven time and again
against his grain
into tightly stitched fabrics
made to seem homo-genous,
they eagerly braided me into their weave
ignoring my proclivity to snag
and hang by a thread
doggedly resisting mending.
 
These days a long line of untethered bonds
trails behind me ––
a fugitive from conforming
an escapee from playing along
opting for a one-part fuga
a solo flight
from the clutches of harmony
the tyranny of woven voices.

II.
Each morning
as I finger my 88-bead rosary
I bless the newborn day with a prayer ––
praying a Bach fugue.
Two hands, eight fingers, two thumbs
in search of co-existence
freedom within constraints
a wild harmony of paradoxes
wherein horizontal threads and vertical lines
may run parallel, if they so desire,
without conflict or the need to explain ––
a tapestry woven by a master weaver.
a map charted by a rigorous mind
that transmutes the sparse geometry of line
into lush fields of emotion
 
III.
Lost in a crowd
huddled
clinging
to an island universe
the cold and empty void
of rebirth
beckons to me.
I build up my escape velocity
from the grip of centrifugal forces.
Wherefore and whither
I don’t know
I am a thought not yet born
a work in progress
a potential.

IV.
Fugue comes from Fugere,
Latin for flee or fly away.
From what does a fugue flee?
One cannot say, except that
no cajoling would make it stay.
 
My first tentative steps as a fugue
are a solo, if you can call it that,
more like a warm-up before the lights come on.
I am all alone out there
building up momentum
when I suddenly hear someone mocking me
doing a bad imitation
and without waiting for me to stop,
jumping in.
I pick up speed hoping to outrun the bastard
but soon realize he is not alone.
They crowd in on me, one by one,
quite friendly mind you,
keeping an ear out to avoid a pileup.
I try to shake them, modulating wildly
between keys and time signatures
but it becomes clear that I can’t outrun them
so I relax, what else can I do?
and try to fit in.
I play a little less, listen a bit more.
They are quite something these interlopers
some stretched out or compressed
like fun house mirrors
others standing on their head
or walking backwards spoofing me
none synchronized
each marching to its own beat.
I listen in amazement:
Are we some kind of utopian commune?
No one seems to lead, yet
no one forfeits its identity.
Any moment now I fear
the impending disintegration
the descent into cacophony or, worse,
a calamitous train wreck…
It doesn’t happen.
As if by a slight of ear
we create harmony
a musical landscape of tolerance –
the simple courtesy of knowing
when to sing and when to listen,
when to wait and when to charge ahead
when to take the lead and when to follow.
…
Ah, what I‘d give
to be living in a fugue.