Frank Corcoran

Not being a Jainist, line up your shots. Which aerial aleatory guides the chances that these two ( swiftly copulating on a thin air ) black flies will now land on my freshly inked bar twenty three ? Who guides the tiller, what Mind the hot tail-spin? Fresh air painters had their share of French painterly tribulations, including a French fly or two to land on the fresh stroke of the fresh flesh brush. Same or similar here; they seem to like the dazzling white of my page. Two ciccadas orchestrate this bloody tale of flight as my freshly rolled newspaper fly-slapper crashes. We remain tolerant of the poor cuckoo´s call worn microtonally thin, a ruined third or a fourth or even a tritone since last May. There are worse things in store for the unsocked ankle this glorious July day; a composer´s blood, sweet to suck. Angle your nose along down the score-page´s verticle, no skidding as you draw a bar-line, align my summery simultaneities. Scribble slowly; ledger lines calls for time. Cleanly construct your chord, glissando going up or even down. For the paper the ink sighs. For the ink the flies fly. Out of doors music is different.