the full snazztone
of a well-banged guitar
chugging over racing heartbeat bass
and silver charge of cymbals.
my morning soundtrack:
mission of burma.
fit it in before working.
make it loud as a factory.
this is the sound of working.
bare bones virtuosity
manacled to a deadline and an end result
and never taking over
just because it can.
folks make this music.
it’s folk music.
get to work.
there’s still so much to do.
Under
the moon, all of Cordoba
sleeps
as my lover spins suspended from the air itself
in white linen above the fountain,
glistening from the spray.
No one may see this except this dreamer,
and I dare not say a word of it —
I can hear her singing
as the scents
of cinnamon and cardamom
float past me.
I shall not speak of this, ever,
even to her. But I shall carry
this, her fragrance and the silk shine
of her above me, not goddess
but such a human, more real tonight than I,
until I close my eyes for the last time
under another Cordoban moon
that will surely rise on another night of yearning
when I am old, tired of waking life yet glad of my memory.
You are certainly
laughing at us all now
for our struggles
as we try to balance
stopping our lives to mourn you
and trying to get on with our lives.
I picture you
bent double, howling tenderly at us all,
saying to yourself:
Did you hear anything I said?
You don’t stop, not even to mourn.
We’re all together at a movable feast
and you should move with it,
carrying your grief with you
at the speed of blood rushing
through your ever-faithful hearts.
Dark Matter
Dark Matter 