Jose Padua: Peacocks

When it’s done right, the third movement

of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No 3 rocks harder

than nearly anything else in music, except

perhaps Raw Power by the Stooges. You can’t look this up anywhere, and no one will tell you this

but me. Now listen. We know the empire is corrupt and we’re pretty sure

they put a man on the moon, and I know

that these days of distrust give me pause

and give me gas, that less-than-exquisite feeling

of regret,

in which case why should I bother describing these sounds? Hearing music is sometimes like dancing

out of one’s tight pants and into someone else’s tight pants. A woman in her evening gown who pulls a bow across taught

strings belongs with a half-dressed man rolling around on broken glass.

When they first got together they just went

ahead and did things.

One of them didn’t like to dance, but that’s how you grow.

It’s like when a peacock flashes its feathers and you look right there,

like you’re looking at someone’s ass.

With your lips slightly apart, your index finger moves like a snake charmed

to meet

your chin, which you point downward as if

to say, “Thanks,

I know.”

— Jose Padua