Written in tears and small change is no way to go through life, they say.
Then I hear a fiddle that makes me wanna jump up and swing into light.
Memphis Minnie timelessly singing (and thinking) 'bout Ma Rainey.
Allen Ginsberg speaks of secret technicians and the future. And the future!
Complaining blindly to websites and street corners, we call this progress.
Here come the cold jets, the money all gone, the money all gone.
I try to listen to the insistent whisper of gray autumn rain.
Human animal movements informed by Hollywood movies and misunderstood scribble.
And yet, writing in tears and small change might be all I have on this particular day.
Can you hear the beard of your own body calling, trying to warm you?
He was the King of May, slept with teenagers laughing.
So very far from where we are now, what's happening in our sad fiefdom.
They also say, Takes one to know one. and I am left standing, arms empty, on the dirty abused cement of the sidewalk.
Or in a room, in a house, alone on a sunlit Saturday.
Writing, not in tears but in dust, carefully rendered.
A barfly brought me here and left me with little to understand or hold, heart beating like a frightened machine.
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