"One's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things" Henry Miller
out
amid the blanketing
eclipsed
along pas(t)sed
appeared in her gloaming
a ne'r nether
of nighttime sky
searched by starlight
mooned
where no beginnings
nor any ends
beheld
bathing in a
darkness of time
solemn I stare
where footfalls fell
in patterns of three
as if dancing
in a never ending breeze
a ballerina
light as the snowflakes
melted on the tips of tongues
to go back to when we were young
what verses would be sung
would we do it all again
I traipse my weary feet
across the valley of your dreams
a spruce of blue
looking only in the shadow
of you
an emerald of peace
cut to precision
adorned at the nape
of her echoes
far
but not out of reach
I wonder whose poetry your reading now If you still drink mateus with breakfast If the walk to your bedroom is as long For someone else as it seemed to be for me When we lived like two wild souls in a Henry Miller novel I know now that no one can live that way forever But God bless you Baby we tried
(how well I could play)
in a straight forward way;
simplifying it, making it more pure
in a clear sound, turning it up
and bearing down...
there'd be distortion, red-anger, punk-blue,
get it up tough, keep it going,
'cause I didn't know what else to do.
at fifteen I was unreasonably accomplished
with those long dynamic echo-delayed riffs;
at eleven I was sleeping in the back of a car
surrounded by books an amp and a guitar,
rolling around with the sound of
a welt chord, a grace note, Henry Miller and Nietzsche;
laying-down these upholstery-songs in the summer of seventy-eight
where reverb was explored beyond the return of counter-culture,
going 'round the bend, headed in a back-words direction again
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