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On Being a Bassist
by Bart Mallio
Alone at the
space, all I hear
is flourescing
sixty-cycle
hum.
It’s late, and
even the true
believers have
packed it in.
I’m
crashed on white
vinyl, my amp
still buzzing, my
bass still pressing
down on my chest.
On a piano
bench become
coffee table—
my metronome.
I drink lukewarm
water (a rest).
Twenty years, now—
countless evenings
wreathed in smoke,
stolid in dark
repose beside
the drummer. My
hands thrum the tune’s
pulse, push its blood,
fill its lungs, dance,
and exhale still
caesurae.
My great reward:
to know so much
of time, of the
space inside
movement, of sub-
divided breaths—
bright, exploded
instants outside the
compass of clocks
and watches…to
gaze upon
the curve of sound
from isolate
distances, out
on the rim of
the now.
(11/24/03 – 11/30/03)