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Illustration by Virgil Finlay ©
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tree bough spun wheeled sky
a deejay mixes the nights
winter begins to melt
big knob static slow turns
between beats selling me
on get some spine licking
Springtime by storm line
coming again
I
found an old world band
ham
handed radio
on
a walk with my dog
fashioned
an antenna
a
tin garbage can lid and
a
drain pipe down spout
someone
abandoned
where
their foundation
met
a cellar cold jacketed dust
a
permeation of not
having
been here much
so
I tune in, fork, roads and sin
to
find the light song inside me
the
when, then and how
cognitive
dissonance cost
damages
my hearing and
decision
making processes
right
now I cling
crackling
hymn destinies
by
Caribbean kettle waves
my
sling heavy fates
are
ringing in bowed
eastern
melody call spectrums
my banded
legs love
the shackles I buy
holding
onto promises
they'd make an Icarus out of me
I
rinse and repeat my name
robe
myself in gold leaf ego
my
life has become
abandonment
of
my inner commercial jingle
did
I want a rankle risen twenty cons
before
a song is played piss off to represent me
yes,
my sponsors can be all in a row
they
can be sitting ducks
locals
in blinds, everywhere
everyone
says I will
have
to pay the bills
I
will have to keep
writing
the lyrics
and
keep hoping
one
day they will fit
every
key stay high
I
frequent for modulation
my
bi-polarities
are
much like weather patterns
changeling
fan blades
clock
fire pitter patters
splash
back sounds
rain
outside
the
windows moor themselves
tie onto forced air
new
furnace bellowing
an
old house’s memories
recited
in new lung gasping
an
array of freak show sounds
bred
bitched stud caged
rickety
tiny slivers and
a
soul’s rust holding
molecules
together
with
creativity and cynicism
we
each have
an
eternal dance
jumping
disguise
to
disguise
so
we may hide
the
breathless
sometimes
we pause and rest
we
check to see
if skin has grown cold
my
body has always known
it
appears and disappears
cycle
frenzy to soft rondelet erode
the
earth
ash, eon and rain make
the
words between senses
perceived
limbs
that
can surrender
but
never be tamed
every name
you give me
narcissus
is only going
to be
a paper thin impression
of inks and
wide berth milks
lost
after a moment
a seed once
wanted
the soul
to
be a known immortality
an
immutability
the
best kind of song
to be a vessel
or portage
to the truffles here
the movements
and mechanics
of the wind
have me
listening, leaning
bowsprit leading
note to note
into a symphony
rooting for more
tremble veined
wanting
and thirsty
kind
of theater
where my eyes
are always
going
to be the flowers
the
bitten and bathed
tide
by tide
the
light that smells
most
like me
and my nose is always
going
to be the trees
the
sentinels and silhouettes
act
by act
the
scent that looks
most
like me
EJR
©
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