Pick a song.
The rest will take care of itself. The sleep will take care of you. Breathe in deep the first note through every toe. Lift-as in the space above. Support- so through the strength below. Remember the song through everything And you can, With your voice, Weld each word On the back wall, Sparks flying with in the shape of the line. Your interpretation of traditions, Your rejection- Don’t forget the words. More importantly, Don’t Forget what they mean. What they don’t mean. What they still mean. If they still mean anything to you, Finish the song. Pick another song.
anything but that to which you are most devoted
Busking. Panhandling. Begging. An artist’s most submissive position. Music’s all-powerful mystery beholden to pocket change. Until a blind man, guitar in hand, On the Blue Line platform, Plucks from an unsuspecting heart An unmistakable theme- “What can you say about a 25-year-old girl who died?” One bill and some coins in his collection basket, A mysterious, gentle reminder- Dynamics come wholly undone. I drop in my all-powerful dollar, All aboard the train. Down here, I will Write for the first time in nearly three years.
Her singing reached a level deeper-
Nature's unspoken parameters sung. The waves foamed and crashed Their soulless masses on the shore, But suddenly in rhythm with Her song- did something more. We could see then, the sea Having nothing to hide, neither did she. She simply sang. But the sea would have nothing to say Or so it seemed, until her song Made poetry from its spray. For it was her voice telling Truth and story that given day. Her music, more than the sea Was how Mother Nature We recognized, unmistakably. Every time she sang. The gray clouds given their silver lining, The sun brought to its setting place and time, Her sublime independent singing spirit Personified sea, shore, and sky. And we knew it every time she sang- There was no other way or reason for her, And for those like her, who only feel alone When the music stops.
Called Religion before Romanticism:
Darling Radha’s swing, Pressing softly to her blue Beloved Trickster’s skin. Called dharma, grace, and savoir-faire Confounding fated will, Called freedom then for putting off The destiny we fear. From her swing I can believe In good romantic faith- While makers of a moment’s Beauty, steal a tear away. When I laid, Bathing in the roaring spray At the feet of the lower falls, And wandered through soft blue Volcanos guarding Atitlan. When I watched, Clouds burst from his fingertips Cold war to choral glory, Seid um schlungen Millionen! An die Freiheit! An die Freude! When I found, A girl whose smile couldn’t hide her pain Singing her song’s last echo, At once the world was not the same, but... How could I ever know. How could I ever know... After the West was won with lies One man said, "God is dead." I mute the TV from her swing, Smile, and bow my head.
Two pointed crosses scabbed over
My Achilles tendons. Left upright said, LOVE, Inverted right said, HATE, That I might never forget Feeling too much of either Would undo me. Eleven years later, I knew, I would know Her by how she caressed Both calloused words, Like a wolfmate Licking my wounds.
Never bring frail, messy thoughts
Into the house, Especially not into the bedroom. Leave them outside, Clean them outside. Meditate, pray, give thanks, make love All over the house, But especially in the bedroom. Keep them safe inside. Come inside to their safety.