I play one song on the guitar
over and over, trying to get it right;
I never get it right.

I change guitars to try and get it right,
and it’s better — but it’s not right.
I put the guitar down after a few attempts,

or moments, or when I’m discouraged
beyond caring anymore — and actually?
It’s always the last one. Always

I am beyond caring, except: I still care.
I care and worry about my brain, my head;
my soul, if you will.

In moments like this, the soul
takes a moment to stick itself up
and out of me; peeking, if you will,

at the nemesis, the flashpoint
of its existence. The guitar
opens a door into the simple void

that leads to something — despair,
perhaps, or another realm? I don’t know.
There’s a sudden glow, then a fade;

I sigh and bend to it again;
lost, for the moment, in
the inherent possibilities.

So: I sit and grind my teeth and go
forward into the same song again
with no hope of it being any different

this time. But I do it, hoping anyway;
I do it as if one more round on the guitar
will break it loose and make it work;

outside of me and my guitar
an entire universe waits to be found;
with small hope, I set myself to the task.

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

Watching a landscape on a television show
where a castle once stood, one torn down
by soldiers attempting to kill a man’s memory;
frightening his followers, satisfying his haters,
leaving him up to wind and rain for so long
that no one recalls his name. It happened
so long ago that the assistant director
yawns and rolls his eyes in weary disbelief
that he has had to come here to keep
some measure of reality alive for those folks
who worship each rumor and whisper each hint
and relentlessly watch and wonder if it’s true.

Watching a landscape on a television show
that tries and tries to render it alive and dangerous
while the watchers sit outside the story and think
that if it is true then this must be magic
and if it is not it still is magical in the way most music is
except it is not lyrics or notation or anything
at all like those; rather it is an exhalation of sound
and in there is a lock that can be picked without a key
if one cares enough and one day it will happen
but until then the story will have to be enough.

Watching a landscape on a television show
where a man dies and an assistant director rolls his eyes
and ardent fans of mystery struggle to understand
and casual fans of music struggle to hear it in the background;
in the meantime the musicians take a break from it
and smoke cigarettes and try not to think of it
and manage not to think of it at all; in the meantime
the soundtrack devolves into a case of blues
and no one, but no one, cares for it at all.

Where did the landscape end up?
Who wrote this music?
What is the name of the song?

When the TV is turned off, does everything dissolve
into the everlasting stream of memory?

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

After the ball, a prince
and princess undeniably
shacked up.
No pregnancy followed
and a few months
later the two broke,
somewhat bitterly
though that faded and they both
were left feeling a sweet sorrow
called saudade by the Portuguese,
one that is most often felt in the lyrics
of one of their folk songs,
akin to flamenco, called by them
fado –
but I digress, as I so often do
these days.

Yes, prince and princess
went their separate ways,
their tiny countries not unfriendly
bu clearly at a distance from
the world order, almost as if
they were forgotten by the larger
nations around them until such time
as they became a jewel to be plucked
and placed, stolen, in a diadem
by first one and then the other;
there was sorrow and anger following
and both princess and prince perished
in the aftermath; bloody, disheveled
yet unbowed; one could hardly
tell them apart — but once again I digress
from the point I’d like to make:

ah, it’s forgotten —

but somewhere in this sodden fairytale
there lies a moral about faith
and forgiveness
and a sordid little message
about two against the evil world
for a short time until they
fall apart; how their countries
fall apart almost independent
of the failings of individuals;
instead I am left with
my own cold fingers
trying to conjure a new missive
that is also an ancient one
and nothing prepared me
for this —

how mundane
the world became overnight,
how hard it was to get up
and sit here typing, how easy
it’s become to just close my eyes
and forget all this — prince,
princess, war, fusion, struggle,
sadness, music —
saudade, fado —
just close my eyes
against it all, not weeping for it,
never a tear in me
for all the sweet bread
in this world.

“““““““““““““““
onward,
T

As I walked out on the streets of Laredo,

I realized I have never liked the place.
Oh, sure, I knew the song
and I sang it now and again,
took it out for a walk —

but not a far walk. Seemed like
the road went on forever,
the road lengthened,
went on before me
for miles till I reached
the dusty city; instead of choosing
a longer stop there
I sat down quickly,
took some water
from a bottle I carried, listened
to the song, listened to
wind scraping the dirt; worried
about loved ones. I closed
my stinging eyes. I shut down
and thought of her, and
the wind stung hard,
an angry bee, dancing
before its death on my skin…

“Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story…”

I shook myself awake found myself
going pale, almost ghost, almost
cloud. People walked through me;
I felt them walking, talking, thinking
of lovers and hatred and money
and junk, always junk; whatever I had owned
became junk. I stood up from the curb
and shook myself free. Whatever was mine
I did not want to tell the story of it;
I wanted to be silent
but my tears would not allow it;
preferred to be
all by myself, with all my own words…

“Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin…”

…and the words were red, always red.
Spoken like a burst, an explosion;
a red song beyond melody
and harmony. What else could I do
but speak and sing? I had not been in town
long enough to know anyone and
the street signs all led back the way I came.

Afterthought:
I really, really hate old Laredo. Hate
the long streets, the dust, the memory
of the song I learned in grade school.
I don’t like the new Laredo much, either;
it’s a big city now, full of dust and dirt
and people, always people in cars
shaking off the dust as they zip by, people
who hang their weary heads when someone
starts the song.
Still, there’s the last verse:

“Play the fife lowly and play the drum slowly…”
Play the dead march as they carry me along;
Let the clods rain down on me, I’m going to join them,
For I’m a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.”

Close my eyes every time I hear it.
Imagine the rain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday begins with music;
it ends following the morning
and the night.

Silence before,
on Friday; silence after,
on Sunday.

In between, a noisy chant;
litany of devils; angels; ordinary
men and women.

There is one moment
you ask for; a moment
of clarity amid the din.

It’s a moment, a few seconds
of rest, quiet before
sounds rise again.

You turn from your window,
face the wall away. You take a few seconds
knowing it will start again

and it does.
Same cacophony;
same ruckus;

music for a disappearance.
You pause amid the noise.
You breathe; you remain intact.

You have done all you can do.
It’s up to the next person
to face the sound.

Up to the next devil, angel,
child or man or woman.
Wipe your hands of it.

Go home, dreaming
of dying wind,
of music unceasing.

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

Start with a television
turned on to the left
with no one watching.

Add to it one Telecaster,
tuned mostly up and untouched,
on a stand to the right.

In between, place a man
whose friends stay away
for fear of catching

his illness, his strokes,
his mental anguish — what
have you?

What have you, indeed?
The bare bones of a problem
simply defined: simply put,

keep a short leash on memory.
Long time past is not worth visiting;
close your eyes against it.

Keep to a short time before nightfall instead,
keep no time to think of a different answer.
Keep the rest of time in the world

to pick the guitar up, tune it up,
stumble through playing a wee bit.
Nothing else will do.

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

Julie, or Kate. Maybe
Joan — I can’t remember
the name of the singer
on the radio right now.

Once I could. I had a memory
close to God’s, if I can
speak of that — I promise you,
I whisper it in my head

so God won’t hear me if
in fact God is listening, which
I sincerely doubt based on
God’s inattention to various

disasters here in the moment:
marchers in our streets
confronted by sneering cretins;
the climate slowly bubbling;

inequality and poverty
endemic — who am I kidding?
God isn’t made for that. God
eats our offerings and

burps them up without a care
for the world. Julie
or Kate or even Joan don’t
matter to him, or to me.

What matters to me now
is the simple fact of living —
hanging on to moments
of peace, holding on to grace.

I listen to the radio hoping
for one moment where
it does not matter one bit
who I hear or if I can choose

one singer or another
to pin the voice on. Julie
or Kate or Joan can go forth
singing forever and a day

will come for them as it comes
for me and no one will care
amid the tumult of war
and famine, in the middle

of peace and freedom
and lack of want. No one
will care for more than
their own voice and the hope

that it will be heard.
As for me and God,
we will have their backs.
We will have them at heart

as we listen to them
and if God forgets,
I will not until I go.
Julie, Kate, Joan — I swear

I remain with you,
you have me, you have got me,
I’m your man, your biggest fan,
I will stay true, even when

you stop singing.

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

On the radio
intertwined guitars
go weaving; me,
half-asleep,
thinking of how I
could play this.

Deciding I can’t
and, swallowing
my overanxious pride,
tumble into becoming
fully unconscious
until morning.

I’m not much better
when I get up; stagger out
and put the radio on.
Sit down, drink coffee;
pretty much my whole morning
till I get up and try
to play — after I write,
of course. Always
after I write. Trying to recall
what had come last night
and failing…again.

Deciding I can’t, yet
again. I will try
at some point but again,
yet again,
not today.

Writing is
all I have left. It’s not
wonderful, barely
worth noticing; still,
I write and I write.

Deciding I’m
not worthy to hold a pen.
I toss it down.
Not worthy, so I will seize
my guitar; not worthy
of that either; I set it
back on its rack and then
I sit and sit some more

as the earth moves with me,
moves under me; as the sky
moves above me, with me;
as I move with them, through them
with a guitar unplayed, a pen
unused on the scarred table;
each of us unused
as we will be for the rest
of our days.

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

Lonesome harmonica
sits noiselessly on my desk.

Lonely guitar unplucked
next to it on a mute stand,

rubber bands knotted together
to keep it upright and silent in place

as I am silent for once
thinking of unborn children.

This entire house will remain silent
until I do something to relieve it.

I feel like
I ought to do something

but can’t think of a thing to do
that doesn’t involve

music and kids’ laughter. Their innocence,
so I’m told, will shine through;

well, I wasn’t that innocent, ever.
My ghost children will never be either —

no one is, I think. I sit here guilty as hell
of something,

with silent musical instruments
muted up,

waiting to be played;
they will wait a long time.

A child’s laughter will forever
be missing. Harp and guitar

will forever do nothing without
me to fill this void.

As for me, sitting here in the quiet,
I’m missing too.

No one’s looking for me.
No one is listening.

Any stories I could tell
have already been aired,

any songs I could play
don’t make a sound worth hearing,

and any rate kids would not understand
a single word of each.

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

It is wee bit before sunrise;
song comes forth sounding
like Everly Brothers; song
of wistful heart; cliche song
ending, switching to jaunty
ragtime beat; Doc Watson,
blind voice, song as joyful
as icon in Russian church —
no joy superficially but behind
screen of sadness — song ending;
DJ speaking of 1964, switching
over to modern noise,
bluegrass fused to rock drums; then
recording of station ID
so it will be known by few listening
at this hour, those who likely know
anyway; this ends, turns over to
someone called Nathaniel Rateliff;
music never ending at sunrise,
continuing a long night
without sleep;

listen, pal:

this boy is tired,
borderline remorseful over
being awake or at least conscious
for this concert;
eclectic, illusory
gladness over
white noise of dread;

this is sameness, penance
for rising with sunlight’s arrival,
doctor’s appointment coming;
music secondary to wondering
what happens next.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

A Telecaster on the stand
next to me:
two single-coil
pickups, one three –
way switch, a volume
and a tone knob:
that’s it. A slab
of wood mass-configured
to amplify sound
and make sonic magic

and I can’t think
of anything
to do with it.

Saturday morning: old songs
on the radio — Beatles,
to be specific. The DJ
plays a rare German pressing
of “Magical Mystery Tour.”

Strangely don’t feel
the pumping urgency
to seize the guitar and struggle
on, and on, until
I tire of the work involved
and put it back —

instead,
I sit. As if
the black and white
of the Telecaster
itself makes the fatigue.
As if I don’t dare
pick it up and try.

This house is so
quiet except for
the Beatles and my heart
so loud I can barely hear
anything else,

anything worthy
of repeating,
anything worthy
of writing down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
T