Music Stand(ard)

Left in park, all thought speed departs from premises and we're left with

holding tests of rest wrested from in-home equipment guardrailing beasts of bird-

dog wheeze. Is there a quash code for arpeggiated milestones? 

You stand by, double reeds intact before the music stand disposed to preface

likely melody, a kind of barley magnified into thought soup. 

Car alarms Charles Ives might have had his children sing a half tone higher

while the solo voice chipped away at the original mask, the warming meaning

of whole tones in the driveway, a factory of olfactory toasts without

glasses raised to roast the tongue in cheek announcers' ghost spores

winging it to waive standards like passers by in jovial heists remanded 

to some haute presiding officer to declare a grinding halt 

post numbskull affairs of the indugent miniscules. Meanwhile on the stand

a recalcitrant witness claims nothing heard, nothing sung a cappella 

or otherwise. Allowing folly to rescind a prior point. Am I the only one

within hearing anymore? Sporadicity unhands me, sir, from over-

dosing on cadenza sprees. Only a grammophone unfreezes 

the infinity lodged within as if mere affinity for pampering

around the house now poked through with manifest 

behest found wounded wanting.