Before the Trans-Atlantic cable
all communication was limited to
short-burst wireless
(Stevsie had an echo-box)
Man with Horse
and intercontinental tanker which
if the weather was right
only took about two weeks to connect

Now one can say ‘hi’ to one other
nearly instantaneous and half-way
around the world. Now one hardly
takes the time to pay for postage.

And even though it’s only been
so long since this sort of thing
were even possible, one can
hardly conceive of being down a day
without it.

Or maybe that’s just me, dear.
I can admit that weakness, and I
can miss you just a little bit
because of it. What I can’t do,
though,
is fathom how we used to rely
on pigeons.

I stood for a moment in reverence and silence
watching the moon hang in the sky.
It’s glow was a great beacon. It curled my eyes a bit.
Continents sailed above me from one end of the universe
to places far distant, and on important duty,
I’m sure of it.

I got the car back down the road and my view became
yellow lines and glowing signs and not a star at all.
The trees are thick in most places, and always
at the tops of the hills that are big enough
to show me the sky for a moment.

When I finally stopped driving it was daylight again
and those nation-states had made their appointments.
My eyes still curled, a bit more even. The sun was bright.
I had money in my pocket for a plate at a diner and
a beer across the street. It was the best beer I’d had yet.

I’d give up that plate to know whether I’d ever see
the moon like that again. At least then I’d know
not to get my hopes up most nights.
I’d give up that beer to see
the moon like that again. Beer is such a
transient thing, anyway.

He reached out to touch you once
but you were gone just like before
so I asked why he kept reaching

with all the sweat on his brow
and the tears in his shirt
and the holes worn in the soles
of his old Nike sneakers
he couldn’t answer

I asked what kept him going
if not the burnt black coffee
from roadside diners or the
sticky wads of deep-fried dough
and he didn’t have an answer
for that one, either

I asked him why he didn’t
just head back home, where
his recliner sat at just
the right angle so there was
never any glare on his
42 inch television, even at
4pm and even though he had
a big west-facing window

He didn’t even try to
rationalize, and instead
just started hiking for to
reach another time and so

Baby,

you’d better wait up a bit
because if that’s not love,
then there ain’t none
in this world, anyway

I walk city streets sometimes and I
understand a few things here and there
and I can see where you’re coming from
about the used-to-been’s and the
back in the days

All your clothes are kind of worn
from long, too long, spent
pulling levers and filling tanks
and counting and sorting and
you were the best, I’m sure

But I’ll tell it to you straight
as I can, and i don’t want you
to be upset, so I hope you can
take it, but
there’s never been any honor
in the scent of gasoline and
beef jerky

I wish you could walk these streets
just like I do and I wish that
here and there some things would
come together but you’re still wearing
your company jacket and still
rattling off line-counts and
pressure ratings

and the gas smell has more or less
come out of all of your slacks
but jerky, so I’ve been told,
is still two-for-one at the
Stop’N’Go on 12th street

I night only lasts so long
until it fades in to negative space
and the breathing is heavy
all along the front stoops and patios
of a long drive home

And with a horn-case in one hand
and a bag of gear strapped loosely
I can understand and credit
a man’s taking to extremes
with the things they love left
back on stage and the person
in another town

Negative values shift black sooner or later
and everything eventually turns real
again
and there’s food and sunlight and
room to exhale
maybe time to take a walk somewhere
and it’s just fine

but soon it circles back again
and I understand things one more time
and a little more clearly
and even through the negative space
what with all those other towns
and all

The thing about Memphis is
The water runs different there.
In circles.
Like a ten year Old when nobody’s watching
Or a six year old that’s proud.

They don’t check every bag on the outbound buses
Or log their miles in their taxi cabs.

The folks on the street smile
Most times
And everyone is happy enough
cash and carry and all.
Even when funds are a bit short.

And even though the water runs different
it feels wet just the same.
Doesn’t it?
It’s just as wet as water ought to be

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves
but you, you’ve got a ten-thousand page dossier
with full-color photos and a reference index
on a retracting line that’s buckled to your belt

Sometimes I shouldn’t know that your boyfriend is gone
and maybe it’s a bit quick to let the world know
that you’re ‘on the prowl’ but I guess
if that’s the best bet to get some easy action, why
I hope the type of boy you like starts flocking
in your direction

Don’t tell me about it now, though, Ms. Blaze.
I’m sure you’ll revise your documents in the morning

Sometimes I
can handle listening to
him and her
complaining about
every tedious detail
of their life
and I can even feel
from time to time
sympathy

But then the truth comes out:

“Signed this loan
(can’t afford it)
bought this car
(cant afford that)
bounced this cheque
(to cover the car)
stole this jacket
(I was cold)
drove on a suspended license and told the officer I was my brother during a routine traffic stop
(well, that’s sort of that,
isn’t it?)”

And I just don’t think
I can take it any more.

No,

I think I’m going to start
a pawn shop.

That way, I
may have to listen,
but I don’t have to care.

Do you want to know what acid is like?
Yeah.
It’s like when you had your first
philosophical breakthrough
where one thing clicked
and everything made just
a little more sense

And you went on for hours.
Should you go back to your room?
No, just as long as
you remember that reality is
what it is

Now is when I should talk
to Rob, though

He’s still just
so full of shit.

He smiled at me then,
from across the wall of his jungle hide-away.
He had scribbled on the wall
with paints and inks
and foretold of years and
years to come.

His brilliant cloths were radiant indeed
and would have fought
the sun’s brilliance
in fairer weather.
But he was no fighter,
nor killer nor
prophet of doom; his words
were soft and pleasant:

I was not going to die,
he said.

My world is not done spinning.

I recall,
and vividly,
wresting you in a slumped position
with your head cushioned carefully
and your back curved
by the wight of yet another
bad decision

We slept for just about an hour
and rested for an hour more
and in between fits of consciousness
you swore that you’d be alright
once the fading passed

I find you now and again
these days,
and drinking and smoking and
all the other ings you do
are still a collected pass-time
but your back
is a little straighter,
at least

I hung from the mirror
one of those smelly pine trees
where you’re supposed
to trim the wrapper
and slide it down bit
by bit
so that the air is freshened
gently and bit
by bit
but I am not one to be gentle
on the matter of pine trees
and though the thing was
labeled ‘black forest’
the Bonneville now smells
like Heaven I tell you

I cover myself with cuts
and scratches
as I stride or stalk
from point to point in time
and rotation

and I hardly complain at all

But sometimes a needle
will nick just so
or a bramble will sink deep
or paper cuts
(Paper Cuts!)
will stop my stride
(or stalking)

and sometimes in mid-step

and though these wounds
sting mercilessly now and then
they are but cuts
and scratches

and I swear I will not pick at them
(most of the time)

There were whisps of cloud in the sky
if I recall correctly
and the paint on my car hood
was dull as ever
and we went on like we always did

I learned to walk once
and haven’t stopped since
and I’ve spoken good English
for some time now and
I’ve had seven cars in
just as many years
but the first one is always
such a thing, you know?

and we went on like we always did
except for the part where I
finally got to see you play
and it was just such a thing.

Some days I find a box of pocky on the desk
and that’s all I really need in an evening.

I still look at the sky
when I get out of the car
most nights
and it still takes my breath
away
seventy percent of the time
and this is going on
for years now.

And sometimes it’s nice
with the balance how it is
but when you say Good Morning
all I want is saxophones
and when you say it again
I shouldn’t hear nothin’
except for
damn

I spoke with a Deacon

I said

‘Deek,
Why, my whole world can be summarized
in this pocket. And there’s some money
in it, and there’s some lint and hair
and other things to interest me barely.

‘A couple more folks jive in this pocket
too and they hear me. Every once in a while
it opens up and we get the daylight and
all’s well and good, except sometimes
here comes this hand to take one of us out.

‘And there’s a hole somewhere, though I
can’t ever find it for the life of me,
but now and again things get dropped and
runs straight down the leg in to some
beat up old tennis shoe.

‘So Deek,
my whole world is a torn pair of jeans
and some cat won’t take the time to patch
or stitch ’em, and grabs us out and
shakes us up, and so how am I supposed
to have any good reason to pay him
any mind at all?’

The Deacon spoke back.

He said

‘My boy,
you can disregard the man what wears
these Holy Cloths, but just you wait
until Laundry Day. Then we’ll see what
comes out in the wash!’

I replied to the Deacon

I said

‘That’s cool, Deek.’

And now I don’t pay him any mind either.

These arms they throb
and sometimes they get away and sometimes
they are permanent fixtures
and sometimes they are strong enough to
tear a door down and others
they are just strong enough
to keep it steady while the pins are pulled
and it’s a difficult throb
to keep up with when
it’s so far out of your head
and so dissimilar to your heart
but they throb nonetheless
and they get away sometimes and sometimes
they never leave

The air-pressure changes
(you can feel it in your gut)
All your hairs stand up
and I know you like your guitar
electrified, baby,
there’s nothing you can say
about a big brass sound
except for
Damn