It’s just amazing that
    A simple hat
Can transform me so

I put that pork-pie on
    And the spark’s begun
So let’s start the show

-

Looking for subtle phrases
    And all my graces
They seem to shine

Just wearing heart-on-sleeve
    And I still believe
That the words aren’t mine


Oh
          Where’d they
Come from?
                         Not me!
              I’m dumb.

-

I play here every night
    If I’m feeling right
So please come on by

My smooth responsive band
    Makes it all seem planned
When they’re primed and high

           -

But if you listen close
    You can hear the prose
Is a bit too loose

Mark plays his tight guitar
    An unheard-of star
In his wing tipped shoes

-

Oh

          Who needs
   An audience?
                       They’d be
           Applauding us.
                
-

    And I’m just fine to be here in this place
    Where the rain can’t touch our chilly faces

And we can bless or we can sort of derange
We can play Roc-city for pocket change



    It’s just so weird and funny that
    I can be transformed by this magical hat

And I wouldn’t change a single note
As it’s ushered forth from my scratchy throat

Throbbing twinge
To blinding light

Doubling over

Pinioned, you'll hover
For a moment

The trap is set
All it takes is a tiny misstep

Just an inch
And the bone and sinew

Unhinge
...
Like a snubbed lover

Crippling and crumpling
My very form

To this spot on the pavement
Where I squirm comically

Attempting to right myself
Useless.

I resolve to keep moving

Grit teeth
Eyes squeezed shut

The elusive sigh of relaxation
Seems like a long forgotten myth

when I began to write
poetry
all those years ago

I was amazed to find
that I even
had a voice.

It was a gift
that I never
hoped for.

I only shared light.

There is too much
darkness.

And then
little by little
I had to write
about the monsters
in the deep.

And my writing
got to be
unrecognizable.

Those couldn't be
my words.

Don't bury me
in a grave
in a big old box
I've known too much
darkness.

And so here I am
trying to balance
injury
with hope for a new future

That may be called
healing.

The fog is all-pervasive
From here, it shades every vista

I thought it was was perhaps a smudge on my lenses
Or, considering the betrayal from my other faculties,
the beginning of the dimming that comes with age,

But my glasses were clean, and my eyes, but for the floaters, were clear

The edges fade as the settling fog
             reduces my view to impressionism

The streetlights pass at irregular intervals and I hold to my position at the end of the undulating line of red tail lights

When the flow finally becomes laminar, I am relieved,

Feeling like I'm making the jump to light speed as the beacons fly past,
Finally finding their proper rhythm