A GUITAR GOD REACHED FORTY
It isn’t like that at all.
There is no OD
in room 23
of a cheap motel.
He got your guitar out of storage,
called around to all the members
of the old band,
agreed to meet at Tommy’s
because he still had
a drumkit set up in his basement.
They played for hours,
rusty at first,
but then music memory kicked in,
fingers found the sharpest fret,
the moodiest bass string,
sticks pounded
the hog out of the skins.
Not ones for nostalgia,
they broke in the past
like it was a new pair of jeans.
And they were suddenly as young
at the songs they played.
And a crowd were pouring in
while their new girlfriends grinned
from the side of the stage.
So forget the news.
Ok, so it did happen.
But he’s still 25
and the group’s got a gig
for three weekend nights
at Delancey’s.
So it hasn’t happened yet.
SATISFIED
I won’t be satisfied until
I hear inner music.
Not just lost in thoughts
but a full orchestra
with a cello soloist.
I won’t be satisfied
until my spirit
travels to the far edge
of the universe and back
and my mind
is still around
to greet that traveling soul
on its return.
I won’t be satisfied
until emotions
take on the tangibility,
the density,
of objects.
I won’t be satisfied
until my essence pours forth
at every opportunity
and I can savor the sweetness
of lake and mountain and river
and ocean and planet and star
while lying in my bed at night.
I won’t be satisfied
until I can extract beauty
from a stone,
peace out of restlessness.
I won’t be satisfied
until satisfaction itself
becomes the natural state
and everything else
mere periphery.
I may never be satisfied.
But at least I have my reasons.
CROW
I’ve always seen the dead in you,
the proud forbidding cock of the head,
the morbid black silky wings,
those talons gripping tight
to the overhead branch
as you survey the ground beneath
for the carcass of your next meal.
You may indeed
be a kind and caring parent,
with a nest of fledglings
in the high fork of the oak,
but, when our paths cross,
it’s not as fellow lovers of
and providers for
our own.
No, you are the guarantee
that some poor creature
won’t make it across the road
without being skittled by a truck.
And I am the one
who shudders at the sight of you.
Yours is a watch
for the last moments of a bird
or some unfortunate forest creature,
who sees the demise of others
as a bounty for its kind.
An outlook so extreme
doesn’t sit well with my heart.
You’re not as hideous-looking
as a vulture.
Nor as easily forgiven
as a graceful soaring eagle.
I’ve always seen the dead in you.
But how else
can such darkness spread its wings?
