Rhythm is all that matters
in this business of reliving
the lost music of our years.
Mondays see me going into
the young night in this valley
of rainbows roses remembrances
to rendezvuous with fiery fingers
flirting with sounds of the djembe.
First, I did not know how music
comes out of skin and the memory
of a dead calf.
And the wood,
its grain the color of this year, red,
and then mellowing to yellow
like my country's revolution
twenty years ago. We killed the man,
and the nation's war drums
went on berserk with anger
which is what I do now
my mind going berserk as well
with the rhythms cavorting with angels
and I let my fingers dance
dance dance and swirl with the staccato
of my soul getting a lift a high a trip
away from the humdrum of the everyday
and I let the music of my skin my face my hair
get into my lips
and the enduring endless drumming begins
begins begins begins
and the dancing fingers
do not know the meaning of end.
Each Monday I told myself:
I will go through the same ritual with Reggae,
me and five others looking for the spirit
of our tired bodies looking for some rest
in the frenzy of beats
our language the only language that frees.
A Solver Agcaoili
UH Manoa/Mar 7-07