The night gives you magic

The night gives you magic
you can see between the leaves
that cling to dead limbs,
the city is a profile
that leads with its chin,
night birds sing the songs of chimney ash

and cinder fireflies spiraling  in hot red-yellow streaks
before vanishing into the black tarp,
 
the blues harp
moans from the window
in a house set against a mountain side
that is getting ready to rain,
but it is always raining in my heart
when your lights go out,
 
a small notes tells me
that you've gone for the night
 
and maybe the week
and that leaves me
staring out the window
through the screen
at  clouds and madness
that is a rime of light
cresting over all our business
 
when the city pulls up the
covers and reads
the word by flashlight.

Where to walk and where to sit

the grave yard

would be

an obvious place for me

to drop by

for some hours of the week,

more friends

than ever have their names

engraved in the

last place they’ll every park,

the history of every kiss

betrayal

and hours of

speechless joy

is going increasing

underground and

soon to be forgotten

as witnesses to where

you and I have have

tread fall over like

bribed boxers,

fall like ships

off the edge of

a 13th century map of the earth,

take on a sleep

so deep in dreams

of black ink

that even the word

“calm”

is an over statement.

THE LOVE LOST BETWEEN THEM

Woe be gone in song

of the wandering violinist

as he moves among

the tables, annoyed

as bows the neck

at the haircuts

that bob and shake fists

to his melody

of two Black Forest Lovers

beset by a pack of wolves.

Bristles are the cuts

on the head of this throng,

he bristles himself

and often longs

for a seat

nearest the podium, starting off the evening off right,

on the mark, on time,

a tempo  to  signify the

romance of his moods.

Yet his songs are too sad for

his present crowd,

they like it in chords

that blast and clash the anger of gods they

can't name,

Their rhythm is violent,

not suited

for violins

and the sentiment they exclaim.

The kids want to see Industrial Cities

slip into

boiling Great Lakes

as a backdrop for a riff   on

the E Major scale.

Yet they're all stuck,

they by blizzard and

the need to eat,

and he by hunger and

the need to pay rent

every thirty days,

and together they make

the best of

the love lost between them.

They sit, listen, and gnash their teeth,

while he plays frantic cadenzas,

dreaming of applause and kisses from

the balcony from men in tuxedos

and ladies

in long white gloves,

Together they
 make music t
hat's

jagged

and
     dirty...

Another Side of Long Distance Calls

"...religions are beautiful because of the strong possibility that they are founded on nothing. We would all believe in God if we knew he He existed, but would this be much fun?..."

-- John Ashbery

Somewhere along the line

something was said

that made

an awful lot of sense.

an utterance so

stable in verb and stance

that my head jerked up

as if on a string

moved about

by a cruel master.

The guy who said

was smiles

for miles his white

teeth could blind.

William had his glass at the tip

of his lip

as though a toast

were to emerge from

his studied gestures,

he repeated

his wisdom,

"Jesus lives in a house on

the moon

and he can't go outside

because there is no air..."

The table spun just then,

three fast fandangos,

and in the swirl

three thousand or so years of

thinking came undone like

badly sewn stitches across

the seams of thin, historical clothing,

every fig leaf has fallen

from our shoulders and

waistline,

Philosophy and faith

are seen finally

for what they are

through the bottom of

William's bar glass,

a little man in a corner

holding a wet paint brush.