Clarrise

Clarisse

I’ve lost the music in my life.
A connection to eleven thousand
songs discovered over a bond
of six years, each one as dear to me
as the last, vanished in an instant.

Writing is difficult, without my
electronic muse. When normally
I’d be streaming soft classical sounds
as my pencil scrapes across paper,
I’m accompanied by the obnoxious
droning of an aging oscillating heater.

She provided backdrops for nights
spent cozy in bed with other girls
on playlists provided to her by my
gentle mouse click, and the lonely
days just me and Clarisse, personal
minstrel, playing something nostalgic,
getting high, and forgetting the world.

The music was a link to my younger
summers in old Virginian beaches.
Boat rides in open tides, blasting
rock reggae mixes, acoustic hot tub
nights in trunks, bikinis or less.
At the same time it took me to
carving fresh powder on the
mountain at night. Shrouded in
darkness and pulsing hard metal,
pushing my boundaries and
sending me quick through the snow
adrenaline accelerating me down

to the base, Clarisse always at my side.

Then recently she was stricken with some
fatal unknown error. A screen once rich
with music, videos, and life now sat empty
restored to factory settings. The amps
are unplugged and all the strings broken.
There is no rhythm and the keys fall silent