It is incongruous, disquieting from the outset,
The lower octave, the hesitant vocals
The banishment of the soaring strings
As if aware from the get-go
That what was sought, what was offered
All beyond our means, even beyond our ken,
Its purity and nobility scuffed from the outset,
The very utterances somehow themselves
Somehow sullied by sound itself,
A pure silk communion garment now marked
With a greasy thumb-print
Surreptitiously sitting upon its hem.
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W.k. kortas--mediocre means "better than some". 
Thank you for sending me this. I miss you on my home page. I loved this write and the mood it evoked. The greasy thumb print was the cherry on top.
>
It always good to be missed.
I’m not the only one, either.
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I get the feeling this is our collective fall from grace which reminds me of one of the first baseball games I went to at old County Stadium, Brewers versus White Sox. Heavy rivals. I was with my dad and witnessed my first adult boxing match. That was back when beer was served in paper cups.
White Sock fan and beer has never gone well together.
Trash Can Sinatras?
Jangly-pop Euro band from the 90s. Very un-Wagnerian.
As Mr. Spock once said, “Ah. The greats.”
Still, I’m quite at sea. Use small words; I barely graduated from high school.
Methinks you doth protest too much, good sir.
That’s what Q and The Voices tell me.
Wow, just wow. I love the whole poem, but these lines are just fantastic:
The very utterances somehow themselves
Somehow sullied by sound itself
I’m always happy when people like my stuff more than I do. Many thanks, good sir.