singer sang, from some open mic on Broadway,
in Nashville, or any remnant city,
you may remember witnessing at night,
looking out on rain slicked pavement,
reflecting stoplights and neon,
before the advent of mega-light emitting diodic
messages
urging any eye to pay a glance,
take chance
adventure into ignorance of the street
glistening in August rain, unaware the
singer singing
I imagine I imagined singin' in this bar.
Across the street from Pinkies,
which was just behind the
Ryman, temple of
my working class
spirit that won
the west, when we paved paradise,
and left yesterday in the dust,
or so we was told,
So some unknown singer sang
to an empty room,
but for the barkeep, there,
and me, listening from floor four of the empty
old furniture store at the corner of fourth
and
Broadway,
in Nashville, or any remnant city,
with an empty building available to bums, in 1973.
Where singers at open mics sang on Tuesday nights.
Singer sang,
I imagined I was all I imagine that I am,
and it seems I can be
if I make up my mind.
or so it seems so
It seems
I can be a singer in the spotlight,
on any given night,
when nothin' matters any where
when nothin' matters any where
when nothin' matters any where, and I don't care.
-- a remnant of a moment in any remnant city
still haunting my / thy
coulda beens, had we agreed it worth the effort
to realize
in time.
What if why not has nothing to say in the matter. We make do,
duty bound to imagine being a link to no problem at all, in terms of reality after ever begins where you are.
