Spill your woes to Coltrane.
Let
jazz put troubles into the funky fugue
and
turn them into incense
rising
from cigarettes in the club
where
only the shadows of dead men play.
Give
your grief to Beethoven.
His
ninth is broad and bold enough
to
swallow your rants and raves,
sound rising and pulsing rhythm
in
an orgasm of strings and brass
hung
on a score with a thousand staves.
Hang your bitching out to dry
with
Shakespeare’s iambic play it on the fly.
After
deliberation, Hamlet will stab your heartache,
Prince
Escalus restore the butchered peace
to
Verona after the star-crossed lovers die.
Bury
your pain with the brush or pen,
with
the saxophone playing the midnight den.
Scream
like Edvard on the Oslo bridge
and
let the Jumblies go to sea in a sieve.
Let
canvas, page, and lute absorb your pain,
the
fever pitch, your last damn nerve,
the
witch-wife that mixes up the migraine.
Then
sit by the pasture’s unnamed brook.
The
world is not to die for, but to live.
~William Hammett
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