~for Leonard Cohe, Glen Campbell and me, a single trilogy~

1:32am come down these words in a medusa message,
“about hymn, my priest Leonard (hymn/him)”
and instant recognition-recollection face slap,
this is poem that
I have written
I will have to write
I have already started and left incompleted.
about hymn/him/Leonard, but
the medusa threads need knitting knotting now,
tying up, now not later, waiter,
when the spirit’s in the throat,
or gotta ya by the throat,
no difference

It’s just turning Thursday (had to check)
and just this past maddening Monday,
was in a NYC dive (performance space) on West 46th,
all the way over tween 8th ‘n 9th,
on the tzitzit fringes,
of the Theater District,
where the small clubs all sit cheeky to jowl,
where they squeeze ya in, sitting *** cheek to cheek,
and wheeee,
knee to knee,
at a table big enough for two drinks and a check,
a stage so small it’s an in invitation to off fall,
to hear an entertainer sing an eclectic selection of songs
sure enough LC, hymn/him, quiet slips in, with a
“natty where ya been?” hint hint,
a burning violin  

as if I needed a hint hint from hymn/him,
“hey, hey, by the way, your house’s on fire” reminder
someone wants a trilogy plus one

“Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin,
dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in”
  

of course,
the Hallelujah served up first, this course arrives with drinks and the salsa chips, just in case, I wasn’t fully aware of hymn/him
stalking me, something that happens after midnight regular like,
asking for atonement, and leaving tidbits of unpushed hymns,
now that the sown snow clears  
and the gates of heaven are open for admitting admonition and
up&down come verses on a borrowed Jacob ladder,
steps of ephemeral downy soft violin phrases

ok now I can begin,
as this stage is set with a drum+ cymbal flourish ta da!

na, chill, kids,
almost done, you can’t handle all that needs saying,
but this one needs some fixing, finishing touché touches

should you see a man on the subway,
embellished bya yellow star and carrying a burning violin,
asking strangers if they can spare a dime of inspiration,
so he can worn his way into heaven,
don’t be afraid, for it’s now a duet,
*** with Glen, singing,
me-on-fire-fiddling

”don't be concerned it will not harm you
It's only me pursuing something I'm not sure of
across my dreams with nets of wonder”

yeah.  burning violin.  fiddler on the subway.  after midnight. pursuing something.  through the panic.
touching a burning bush but the fingers unsinged. unhinged. gotta be a poem in there somewhere. and perchance, a ladder to s
some sleep.
see, the end.  

2:31am nyc march 8th