Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Is music always going to bring
the memory of you, always
the memory, always

that time sitting at the piano, my fingers
over yours, playing scales
up and down, variations

like names speaking words
A and C, perfect thirds
we crawl upwards

and down, hitting rhythm and tone, gone
slow over cramping notes
that is how it goes, you said,

from making memories, mundanities
that can't stand in the face of reality, where
music arises purely from the soul
and in nature, no music, no song,

Tuesday, January 10, 2012


Call it luck, sure, if you want it to be
luck, like a round penny in your shoe;
can't walk far on it, but it gives you
something to count on; something to

think of, like when he said -- It seems more like a curse to me
but call it luck, sure, if you want it to be--

that's LUCK, my friend, like scraping your hand
and growing new skin; guess what? Everything mends
and you can curse the ground for slipping under you
or call it LUCK and count that penny in your shoe.
Kicking up leaves from the bottom of the pond
always makes for muddy water; unsettled
depths and worlds unseen floating across
the surface. We pulled up a boot, an old shoe
split at the sole, that perhaps
walked down this road
many years ago, but was since lost, and bearing
no place of its own, ended up floating
down to the bottom alone.