Bitches Brew

these easy words are concrete
ballads stratified by time
lips in a line extended
into a phrase that ascends
from resurrection to resurrection

calcified and cantankerous keys
screech and shimmy through —

this is a fallow time pool
this is a light in that moment
between on and off
this is a street sign
bent by a left turning horn
this is an open window
during an rainstorm
this is a tip left on
an unsanitary table top
in a five and dime diner
because greater things matter
and the lesser are irritating ghosts —

this is sound which is also heartbeat
and blood flow between the extremities
of feet and hands and ears which hear
time as a chord that escapes
before the next bar begins

untranslatable through the distance
chasing action and reaction
the place on the map which
denotes journey
and ignores arrival as an end

Writing 101

These are very short times,
very short thoughts —
momentary clarity against
a lifetime of night —
something glimpsed in swirling streetlight
and rain falls, slow concrete
soaks it up, wears it like a medal,
rumbles with the inertia
a blind man must feel just before
each step of faith, each assumption
that the world exists
as a predictable memory
and that the touch which touches
the unexpected is quite normal —
quite visible if only
we can imagine.

The Perfect Ocean

These waves. Words
words and more
until a shoreline pounces
consumes and spits
meaning into the sun’s face.
And the sun bows
to the many events
unfolding like a rose
in June — for each event
a petal and for each meaning
a land mark of concrete
or cafe or walkway between
bent birch and raised
glasses. For each
emotion a place marker
that remains like
a lighthouse against rocks
and rocky results.
For each moment
others nestling against
and suffocating
until at that nadir
of asphyxiation
we realize a meaning
which could never exist
except when
meaning no longer exists.

We call that love.

Bob on Woody

I’ll sing songs out of tune
until the next wave breaks
against a concrete pier

and the moon is a door
the door is a window
the window opens slowly

distant meadow air enters
into the urban cocoon
bathed in the light of Chardonnay

on a night when an owl
hovers over its prey
in the light discarded

by two lovers arguing
forever concrete on the corner
of King and Frederick

where the tri-city bus stops
for a moment disgorging
the Saturday crowd

and the homeless parade
forth and back past
all the locked stores

forever not shopping
for designer brands
and bleeding edge gadgets

forever the masses
on a dirt road stretched
from east to west Europe

and it’s near the end
of the war when realignment
is being cleared like rubble

and all the songs which swim
in the winds of memory
are twisted into the knots

of loss and change and impossible metamorphosis.