I hear the four o'clock bound for Columbus
It sound's like a harmonica wavering low and
running south
I can feel the ground tremble
The store windows reverberate
Every wheel churning
Every length of track burning
Hurry on down , thundering freight
through tiny towns* ...

I hold you tight up against my body
I take you with me even to the party

I rub you back and forth
Up and down from south to north

I love the way you sing hard and soft
I just can't keep my hands off

I pull you close
From coast to coast

You are beautifully sound
I will never pass you around

Magnificently perfect
You have all of my respect

You are my best friend
Till the end

Flurries of notes performing in the
musical winds , operatic showers of love ,
pain and trivial little things , score sheets of marigold
in the key of imagination , trees brushing the blue felt
o'er golden strings playing hymns of life , earth and star conjugation
The waters and the moon in tonal blend ,
the biological song that never ends* ...

I see music and determination , age in collusion with wisdom
The struggle forward and the modus operandi , the songs of
my undiscovered band shall forever come to mind
I see the eyes of a teenager
Wrinkles associated with pain
Today I see not the rock but every grain of sand it contains
I've the ability to remove fools in my way
Conscious of every note I play
Writing lyrics in free form style
Erasing all other would be musicians in denial* ...

The rain on a cool February day is sorrowful music* ....

Expectations are doorways girded
with iron
Explore your passion with a free , open mind
Material wealth is environed in the chains of hearsay
and speculation
Behold , thy destination , among nations of red
and blue stars
A unique tone within the galactic concerto
Touring at allegro tempo* ...

Living room clocks are good drummers
They keep good beats for us guitar strummers
They never complain and they're always on time
Always creative , compliant and song wise
Zen musicians that keep their mouth shut
Approachable and quite cheerful when the band
is in a rut* ...

My teenage guitar playing was a caterwauling wildcat in a feedback induced search for the cackling daemon Raum
Dad never made me turn it down* ...

I watch the music maker
and wonder if he holds his women
the same assured way he holds his guitar.
I wonder if his fingers memorize their curves
the same way they memorize measures.
I wonder what he does with his sheet music
when it has nothing left for him to learn.
If I were his, I’d insist he hand it to me.
Each stack I’d fold into delicate flying creatures
and send them off into the sky.
With their pointed wings,
they’d strum clouds and pluck stars—
making messages in melodies
to remind the world
why she chooses to keep spinning.

A bottle beneath her cab in a pick-up truck
or the fifth caught here behind the wheel
If pride wouldn't don a cat about this vision wholly refined again
and like a goat with a kid tied this climb atop the land
and she found with her chickens in this ford or a pig there
to book the dance with them all backstage
and now her life was still full of assuage even so she sings
the finer things in life here with that ***** in his belt.

When we were eighteen
sang the three women in chorus
and the bus burst into Spring.

When we were eighteen
they giggled and sang

the bus was a garden
the seats swings in the wind
the passengers angels and fairies

When we were eighteen
sang the three women
men beamed and the women blushed
as they broke into chorus
when we were eighteen

the ride was free
and they all stood up
their bones bellowing the chorus
their skin shining in the Spring

the child grew into eighteen
the old descended into that golden year
never knowing when their stoppage came
when one after the other they got down
and again it was a bus on the road
but with the whiff of Spring
eternal in the crimson blush
of the sun setting and rising
its engine and axle and tyres whirring in chorus
when we were eighteen