I saw you standing
watching five folks push a stalled car
from one side of the street to
another and your clothes
were baggier than I remember
and I bet you haven’t eaten much
these past few years
and I never knew you well
but I guess nobody did really
and I understand
why sometimes
it’s easier to pretend
that some folks are just
dead.
Took a ride to South Bend
last February
to see ‘em
Was a looter and a killer
most days
but a lover
some of the rest
and a fighter
every waking moment
Was a monster sometimes,
too
Got down round seven
on a Tuesday and
had an hour
to spend
inside
Never came back out again,
though
Still there,
probably
You know it’s coming around again
but
you never seem to duck
low enough
His jawline
trembled
Hopefully I
reached out
He wouldn’t
or couldn’t
He stood
as stone
His jawline
trembled
just so
And I
tried
But he
was too far
gone
Oh darlin’
there’s that song again
and we missed it
the last time and
this station only comes though
every so often on
this stretch of byway
and the signal’s strong,
too, so if you could
reach over and turn it
up, I’ll slow down a bit
so the speakers keep pumpin’
and we’ll see if we can’t
at least make it to the
chorus before it
These lives of yours,
intangible ghosts,
much like the summer was
to Escher
No color to dictate
season, nor ice nor
snow nor falling leaves
as if the summer
always was
these lives, though,
are the dossier of a fool:
and at least Escher’s,
when jammed together,
fit right.
Give me a pen
and I will doodle
’til the doorchime rings
Give me a keyboard
and I’ll have ten
poems written in
twenty days about
nothing happening
in thirty
Give me a sign
and I will ignore it
until I realize
I should have paid
more attention
Give me a gov’t check
and a set of wheels
and I’ll indulge
every habit including
driving
Give me a sandwich
and a backrub, though,
with a little jazz
on the stereo,
and I’ll stay in bed
forever
Rain come to hail
and a long way back
and no ride on the way
and a bit lip
and a grin and
a bear
and step after step
before home
and that’s it
and thank goodness
there’s that
at least
Like the clouds parting in the west
and showing off a cluster of rather
dull stars underlined by a jet-stream
washed out by the moonlight so your soul
is hidden behind a bad attitude and a
torn pair of blue-jeans that cover
things up surprisingly well given the
level of wear both pre- and post-
purchase but every so often you step
just right and everything shows crystal
-clear but one has to wonder whether
it’s worth looking at for long anyway
Consensus says it’s not, and perhaps
you should get your shit together,
darling.
His throat gives way
sometimes
and he is struck by fits of
screaming
And I in my cap
and jacket
am more than happy
to walk away
It’s not so windy,
really.
I wish I’d seen your broken fingers
and stopped to ask if you needed help
but you never seemed to and I don’t
think you wanted any anyway
It’s not like I had an extra hand
that you could borrow but at least
I could have helped with a little more
of the heavy lifting than I did
I still have a copy of that note
in a spiral-bound music book on
the page to a tune I memorized
years and years and years ago
I guess I never see it much
anymore but I know it’s there
and I memorized your note too
so it all works out really
If I wrote a note for you I’m
sure it would say the same
sort of thing but the script
would certainly not stand up
Even with those broken fingers
you always did draw the most
fantastic block letters.
there’s that theme that plays and
every time I hear it I never think
of Lester. Lester’s been gone a long
time. Lester’s not even a ghost to a
memory. Lester never talked to me about
anything worth talking about. Lester
did what he was gonna and that’s that.
You did the same thing but I wish
that wasn’t that so much. You ain’t
no antique jazz musician. But you
oughta be. And if I could I’d give
that theme to you. I can’t do that
though. But I’ll play it for you.
Every time.
The weather was right,
at least.
I can understand the
climb.
The drop, I’d not much
care for.
The snapping, even
less.
The swinging might be nice,
though.
And the weather was right,
at least.
You know,
every little thing you did
that someone saw you do
we wrote down and
we pass in a note
from time to time
and this time always seems
the best time
and you know,
most times when
these notes are for other people
they happen to be
bullshit
and only half true
but your note is spot on
point for fucking point
and every time I read it
I get sad again
(and I’m not the only one).
So I hope things
worked out for you
in the end there
but it made things just
that much harder
to work out for us
but that’s okay,
I guess.
I mean, it’ll have to be,
you know?
Sometimes
I think
if I had a gun
big enough
I’d cure the world
with a
copper pill
Sometimes
I have a fry-pan
and a spat
ula
and I make it
pancakes instead
I should
‘nt have said
‘all you can
eat’
because
this world
is never not
hungry
Each chord struck like
pain or
whathaveyou
dissonance
buzzing beating
vibrating particles
rhythm and
sticks
no dynamic markings
improvised decrescendo
falling movement
Moderato click
to softer to
silence
and down
He sat down like he always sat
with a mixed drink and an ink pad
and he always looked upset about
this
or that
but if you took the time to say
‘Hi Jon’
he’d smile for a moment and he’d
collect himself from the bar in
front of him and he’d shudder on
whatever conversation
you shuddered on
with him
He knew a thing or two about
everything, I think,
and he would instruct
and he would exhort
and though a bit pushy, I think,
his was always a valuable,
if damnable,
opinion
He was not so large
but distressed was the one
what bullied him, and
broken was that one’s parts
and in short and simple fashion,
too,
but Jon,
he was not a fighter
most nights
Most nights he sat down
like he always sat
with a mixed drink
and an ink pad and
if I could take him with me
I would but I don’t think
he’d be fit to travel
considering.
With every waking breath I
ponder the future.
I am no seer or soothsayer.
And some would say
my lack of worry
says it all.
Your diviner parts subside
on cold cuts and microwaved
franks and they wash it down
with motor oil and I can’t
begin to tell you why you’re
incorrect but I can tell you
to at least try and eat right
once in a while I mean would
a home-cooked meal a week
kill you?
This man is dead
His words and thoughts
will live on in all
of his disciples
And mostly beyond
the scope of their
original concept
This man is dead
a sickness took him
but you’d never know it
the way he talked
those last few days
This man is dead
It is a shame that
his private library
-The collected works
of everyone worth reading-
will be split and sorted
This man is dead
and I hope he stays
that way. Or I hope
there’s a great party
for his resurrection day.
Whenever the ball drops
there’s someone just behind it
who couldn’t keep their grip
Sometimes it rolls a bit
and it’s hard to find the
dropper
Some people have weak hands
Some people rely on that
Every thought I’ve ever had
has been an electrical pulse
through a chemically balanced
perfectly grounded
tuned and tested
supercomputer.
Sparks have flown but once
or twice
And only,
I think,
when you’ve walked
in to the room.
We enjoy wading in the calmer ports at night.
When the tides are harsh, we falter some.
When the sun comes up, it is hard to see.
When the weather turns, we dry and dress and skate a bit.
When we skate, we slip now and again.
There is danger, no doubt, at other landings.
But these are calm ports that we’re wading.
There have been no riptides yet.
I’ve seen a man try to stay safe
walking just so through just these
quiet, home-grown neighborhoods
but between guns and drug and
hoes an hustlers, in every little
city this big, every street you
stand on gets to the wrong side
of town, so it’s best to walk
the main roads, where at least
we can watch if they take you down.
Irony runs wild most times.
I am apt to fall victim, though I am vigilant.
I have seen him coming and I have failed to move.
Or I have stepped just barely to the left.
Or I have ignored him.
But I think I see him now.
Well, I think I’ll sit and smile.
(Ironically.)
You are an undulating vermin
with no spine and no soul
and you are always tired
and hungry
You speak when asked not to
your spit flies in flecks
and berates your latest victims
who are anything but helpless
Though none have the heart -
or the lack of it -
to crush such a vermin
If only you knew the words
the world has written for you,
left to be unsent in any number
of Gmail ‘Drafts’ Folders.
You would be crushed all the same.
I’m sure that in another decade
yours was the touch that could
reach out and sway the soul
I’m glad for your previous jaunt
in to the education of younger people
on the intricacies of music
But my hat is full of paper
and my pocket full of coin
and m’am, if you can’t ‘feel it’
perhaps you should reconsider
the numbing properties of
all of those cigarettes
Sometimes your day
washes down like
a bad bottle of coke
or like
a bottom shelf whiskey
Sometimes the mud is
ankle deep,
sometimes it’s up
to the
knees
Even your finest snow
shoes are useless to you
now
You only have dollars
and the soda machine wants
exact change
5:
Every time you think of me
I imagine it makes my skin
pull itself tight in embarrassment
If you smile it pulls
tighter still, and my hands
start to have trouble
opening all the way
There’s a smell that follows you
and it haunts me most of the time.
It was burned oil and old smoke.
Now it’s just that chapstick.
And if I must I’ll make that drive
and sit and watch the stars shine
and the trucks run north to south
all night
And I’ll drive that much further
to keep you smiling, even
if it makes it hard to
let go of the wheel.
4:
I was happy for the chase.
But you never could outrun
that old Bonneville,
in the end.
I can’t for the life of me
remember your name but I’ll
write it down this time, I
think, and maybe then I’ll
at least have a concept, or
more likely I’ll just shuffle
that business card to the
bottom of a junk drawer or
a pile of ‘important papers’
on my desk. Who’s kidding who?
We’ll never know each-other at
this rate.
