| The light blue flickering rhythm
|
| Of the neighbor’s big console T. V
|
| Is basking on the ceiling
|
| Of another insomniac spree
|
| And outside sleep’s open window
|
| Between the drops of rain
|
| History is writing a recipe book
|
| For every earthly pain
|
| Oh to clean up the clutter of echoes
|
| Coming in and out of focus
|
| Words spoken
|
| Like locusts
|
| Sing and sing
|
| In my head
|
| And thing is
|
| They often seem
|
| In my memory’s long dream
|
| To be superfluous to
|
| The true story of what was
|
| 'cause
|
| Real is real regardless
|
| Of what you try to say
|
| Or say away
|
| Real is real relentless
|
| While words distract and dismay
|
| Words that change their tune
|
| Though the story remains the same
|
| Words that fill me quickly
|
| And then are slow to drain
|
| Dialogues that dither down reminiscent
|
| Of the way it likes to rain
|
| Every screen
|
| A smoke screen
|
| Oh to dream
|
| Just for a moment
|
| The picture
|
| Outside the frame
|
| Then in a flash
|
| The light blue horizon
|
| Spanning a sudden black
|
| Is sucked into the vanishing point
|
| And quiet rushes back
|
| To search for the downbeat
|
| In a tabla symphony
|
| To search in the darkness
|
| For someone who looks like me
|
| (Though I’m not really who I said I was
|
| Or who I thought I’d be)
|
| Just a collection of recollections
|
| Conversations consisting
|
| Of the kind of marks we make
|
| When we’re trying to get a pen to work again
|
| A lifetime of them!
|
| Cough… cough…ahem…
|
| I say to me
|
| Now here listening
|
| I say to the locusts
|
| That sing and sing to me sitting
|
| Now here on the front porch swing of my eyes…
|
| I hereby amend
|
| Whatever I’ve ever said
|
| With this sigh |