To me, Mozart concerti are more Chinese
Than the Chinese: for hours my phone is playing
This steady propaganda—I have no idea what Mozart is saying,
The busy industry of Mozart’s concerti overwhelm me,
So that all I can think of is a giant economy,
A sexless professor asking students for more notes,
While I sit below this masterpiece which floats
In an agony of precision, unable to comprehend
The time signature, the measures, the 32nd notes which bend
In a cloud of pious harmony which creases
The falling steel categorizing the falling pieces.
“What do you mean you don’t understand?”
The professor yells at me.
I can listen—but when I listen it sounds Chinese to me.
The professor is next door, he has another life,
He has chores, other responsibilities—
So much is wasted in these economies—
Which rise and fall.
Wages and work and love—I don’t understand these at all.
This is a failure. I shouldn’t have compared
Mozart to the Chinese. I don’t know who I am.
And I’m scared.