October 10, 2014
I remember the music and the old men:
drinking cheap scotch and soda water,
huddled around the record player,
heads bobbing softly to the rhythms.
Second-hand smoke filled the living room,
smoke layers lined up with the sound waves
burned my own anxious lungs.
I remember first meditations, and
giant steps, and blue train, and love supreme.
Sometimes the old men would argue
about what the sounds, the music really meant,
about where it all came from, deep inside.
I never fully understood their talk –
but the music, the music I remember.
Shut in all weekend with a respiratory virus,
the thing that is spreading across the land.
Thought it was hay fever. Nope.
Got plans for this week, need this virus thing
to move on down the road.
Finishing off the pot of chicken soup.
we speak as
a small acreage
our dominion –
no wild honeysuckle
along this trail –
to our destination
is cluttered with lies –
road kill is easy pickings
here in Hell,
but touching it, tasting it
will kill the undead.
September 5, 2014
things still remain –
wrapped up –
that want to be unwound –
thoughts never quite
and worlds unformed.
August 30, 2014
Life takes turns – right & left –
and twists sometimes along its radii
and may even spin on its axis
in a completely different orbit
than the one before the last
or the one after the next –
life creates and recreates
reconstituting itself in several forms –
to fulfill its own destiny –
and hopes it struck a fair deal –
and kept all the promises it made –
and always delivered the goods –
build me a poem
make poetry for me
make me your poem
Let me be the poem
let poetry be me