I Can’t Follow You To Texas
Buried in those CBGB eyes,
Siouxsie Sioux – a noble proprietor of the stage –
screams to me that everything I once admired
about the House of Blues is bullshit.
Hugging tight those serpentine hips,
A military issue jacket – Vietnam era –
angry in its limpidness. I’ve followed that anger for a while,
and could do so forever if it meant this feeling of freedom would last.
Tucked Between Trees Part One
Public radio pounding free form jazz through the blown speakers of an ’87 Chevrolet. Cumulus fog rolling through the cracks in the windshield.
The yellow center line has never been so illuminated by one headlight,
the other long ago blown and never replaced.
Recklessly crossing that vivid visual barrier, I reckon this is a fine night to die.
An unassuming two lane road, tightly tucked between steadily decaying trees of every species has been traveled before – but never in a manner so elegant.
Jazz by Fire’s Light
That fire, those hissing embers,
silhouette a sax man, wailing at the waning moon.
That guitar, it speaks midnight:
telling universal truths and hardships, provocatively plucking waltzes.
That panicked, pounding rhythm-
A late night steam train whose only destination is an escape.
Three guttural please to nobody
that this fireside freedom finally found
will press on through sunup.