A song, a poem 11/15/18

While his mother set about the sheets, rinsing and drying, dotting off gobs and pinching her nose, Leo strummed the notes of a song. Between chords his fingers plucked at the strings and lyrics floated in and out of his mind:

Each note flails in a blue space
RIP Trayvon, that nigga look just like me
Heaven where the stars nick past
Turns to metal as you sleep.

The redbud petals for a week in spring
Caterpillars crunch the leaves
Cars pass sighing
While you sleep

Spastic gyrations
In abbreviated bathing suits
Yellow fades to brown as we drove out east
I looked at burnt pine trees.

Mycena pura, a small pink mushroom
Pushes out a bed of leaves
Petals of time fall in this room
Like the deep sea leeds

Stormy yellow evening
Right after the thunderstorm
Alexander’s Rainbow
Pink and yellow, green and pink, yellow and green.

Fluxed and burned awhile
The past motes of cinders, years
They molt, push up, take rhythm
As you sleep.

Hohenbuhelia, the rain falls
It falls all around me
It falls at night as the sea rises
And as we sleep.


Water trickles down the gutters of melting snow. It has fallen for the first time this end of the year, and has limbed the branches a dusty white. A violet sky, the snow reflecting violet; a splotch of light blooming around the cars, slopes of snow spread evenly across their windshields. When a car comes, its beams light up the snowy road and the houses.

The downdrooping boughs of pine trees waver in the breeze, in this martian aspect of earth. Fall yesterday, the world a pot of colors, now barren, bleak, and turned to snow. That pale kitchen light spills out of Rose’s old home, no lights are on upstairs, in the living room or the bathrooms. The top of that tree quakes with the wind as if it has known the night for years.

I stand here with my reflection in the window, the world through the window, through my glasses and into my halfblind eyes. Colors of mauve and the sound of water cracking in the gutters. The windows of dark under those sharp gables stare back at me.

I hope I will never lose the divine energy which now courses through my every waking moment. This surge will not subside or my life is at its end. And I know as I stand to you before a double or triple glass that I stare through you and all to infinity.

The sorrowful lonely dry and cold moaning gust of winter pushes through rolling-away autumn and that album has played its last song. I listen to the water driplets drop. I will never die.


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