Whatever Mozart thought he wrote,
It all came out as just a note,
Originals that emerged as clones,
Entire operas reduced to tones,
Not the music in his head,
But only what his fingers said,
Juices from the cosmic wit
Reduced by gravity to spit;
A world of mirrors come up chrome,
A dream of colors just a poem,
Like the spirals of a top,
Whose pure intentions finally flop,
Or like the flute that plays and waits
While its ghost reverberates;
So when the revolutions stop,
A nightmare ends up as a prop,
And the body that we come to bury
Is not the real obituary,
Not some windy foreign afternoon,
But a sidewalk hack’s cartoon,
Not a hidden wood in bloom,
But a xerox in an empty room,
Not the frenzied dance of June,
But an elevator’s rusty tune.