honesty in dimenudo

Skipping briskly by,
Singing softly,
moving past until the
the memory is of a speeding hum
is all that's left-
the words are all gone.

Thoughts and passengers filling in
the lyrics along the ride.
Finding vocabulary,
real or invented to fit
the time and place.
All that baggage.

Not an orchestra with their
classy outfits and fine tuned
sills and instruments-
dissectors of sound.
All that sheet music.

A masterpiece on the Pentatonic Scale-
misunderstood.
Tantalizing, but still,
the fearful do not get near.
All those lies.

In counts of fives on sevens,
threes and fours, the static crescendos,
but no hands fly to any dials or tuning knobs-
the orchestra cringes.
All those stats.

The fleeting
frantic
Rimsky-Korsakov
of truth.
All that mania.

The passengers cannot make words to it.
They struggle in the whirlwind and are hushed.
It terrifies them with its noise,
causes such a fuss,
this fading buzz of a sting-less
invisible bee.
All that fear.

The bus rides on,
all those passengers-
making up the language as they go-
all those lies;
short lived and slowly told.
Whole note moments in half time.