You take them for granted,
But your dog never does.

She speaks truths like
a politician
with agenda.

didn’t care about
the moon
       ‘til I saw her
lunar skin
       didn’t understand
her eyes
       ‘til I saw the stars
within
       didn’t treasure her
fair feet
       ‘til they touched
Orion’s belt
       didn’t know about
the night
       ‘til she lit up
all I felt.


#npmmoon

If I was as good as I remembered I was
My records would never be broken
The women would sing of my legacy
And my name be religiously spoken.

If I was as good as I remembered I was
My sainthood would be secure
For my charity and humility
In a heart, great strong and pure.

If I was as good as I remembered I was
I’d be praised by all my fans.
If I was as good as I remembered I was
I’d have been another man.

Page 8? One word?
F. Scott Fitzgerald puts fruit in his lyrics.
I could never stop at one.
I bit into "soppiness" and
it squirted in a way
to make a fatted grape jealous.
I peeled the skin of "Swinburnian"
and it juiced the air
with an argument between God and hell.
I plucked The Tree
in This Side of Paradise and pulled down
a "Celtic" apple shared by a mother
a Bishop and a Monsignor.
"Thirsty" spoke
but did not leave us hungry.
And his basket was so sweet
that Carmen Miranda could
wear his words.

he had a barbershop on Broadway.
it sat perfectly
midway between the river and
"the other side of town".
you passed George's
whether you wanted to or not,
but people wanted to.
he made them forget the mortgage
their ugly spouse
and tragedy.
he was half entertainer
half evangelist
which didn't leave much for barbering.
he chased away heartaches
like tufts of hair blown
across the green
and white tiled floor.
his guitar came out
more regularly than his clippers
and sermons were included
in the basic package.
you paid for the song and
the therapy,
the haircuts were free.