Music isn't the same anymore.
The purity and grit are gone.
It's mechanical and cold.
I remember the days of
records and record players.
The crack and pop, the
sizzling booming bass that
rumbled in my soul.

I think of a song, let's say
something by Zeppelin.
I close my eyes and smell
the ****, see the
blacklight poster on
the brick basement walls.
I lift up the needle and
ramble on.

Writing is my lighthouse when
I'm lost at sea in the
dark fog
among the sirens singing their
seductive songs.
It is my net
that catches fish to feed
me when I'm starving and afraid.
An albatross silently looms, while
waves swell and break against my
raft.

The kraken yawns and waits,
but the words and lines tow
me safely to shore.

In place of shadows
sunspots and creases
an embankment the gray of day seizes
      nailed to peril as a savior
      pushes out all traces in its labor

Dust and smoke
--the heartless void
above the faded ring of hope
      say a sated prayer
      for your fellow wayfarer

I'll shield your body between
the rays and surface
I'll be your dark clouded step
     when your own feet fail to purchase
     into the ground they sink

~
Two minutes of perseverance
two minutes of curiosity

Seeking out life
returning with ingenuity

It's all about surfaces and thresholds
and winter hemisphere

Each of us wants so badly
to be that next satellite

Or at least be allowed
to dream we're a small dark spot
moving across the Sun's face
~

I.
Lain down, unconcealed
toward the window
shoulder to hip -- a shadowy cursive
perhaps penumbra

II.
Seated, face in utter profile
standing, sorting laundry
washing dishes, guarding
the radiator

III.
Hair eschewed in
conjugated waters
double-exposed
roots and
foliage -- wisps
of sugarland
in subtext
their dark net
cast over a pearly bright sea
discovery left
to the imagination

leaning into the darkness of the night

into the stillness of the leaves, leaning, into
                                                                   into
into the soft perfume of the flowers,

he loved it when she was sad, - suspended
between the sudden gust of wind,

every time he looked at the sky, tender tears
appeared, from nowhere,
running on her milky face, as if caressing the
clouds,

he watched her sad gaze wandering among the waves,
dressing them with a last sunset,

the tide still remembers her steps,
while the sea always forgets shells on the shore

I talked with the new moon tonight,
And asked: - How fast,
How slow
The seasons come and go,
The birds migrate, the grass is getting dry,
And not be late
In life,
In death,
At birth, how loud do we have to shout?
How long to stay?
And wait,
And count,
How slow, how fast we have to love,
And get a glimpse of quicksand,
A touch of a tear
When wrapped arms melt in waves,
How many steps?
The ocean, lying at your feet
Begging for your embrace,
How slow the clouds go, or
                                                         Stay
Still,
How long the gaze,
How slow the breath