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 drugs 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
you can watch if they take me 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 my finest snow
shoes are useless to me
now

I 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.