Plop, plop; chunks
rise and fall.

My head these days:
just a stew. Brown,
light brown; color
of summer soil, clay
on a concrete slab.
Now and then it moves
and some chunk comes up
from below, then
sinks down and vanishes
again. It is at once
deeper and shallower
than I think makes
perfect sense, but…
plop, plop; chunks
rise and fall.

I could have written
a book about music, once.
Snatches of parts of old songs
couple up within, latch
seamlessly to parts of new songs.
I try and try to keep them
divided and whole unto themselves
but…plop, plop; chunks
rise and fall.

I sit with my messy, glorious
mind and watch it
sputter and spatter itself
over what small items
make me up, these days:
each chunk a whole day,
a week, a moment.
I sit with my ruined ears
as they tell stories
of a soundtrack to go with all of it:
a whole song or a piece of one;
a bar, a melody, a whole tune
now and then.
I get up from my saggy seat
to do something original
but…plop, plop;
chunks rise and fall,

and I sit down again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T