Thursday, January 30, 2014

The Singer

When you wrote that song
you were sitting in dry bone dirt
against the back wheel of the trailer,
three mangled chords cutting into
your wrong-callused fingers.

Years later everyone and no one
knows what it means.

You are alone in a sanctuary as the drunks
push around you; your cigarette blesses
them with smoke sacred to the vocables.

Your old legend of despair carries them
to their knees and some strange grace
knocks the wind out of their deaf howls.

You sweat out ten lifetimes of blood feuds
and swaying bodies from the rafters.

The rocks cry out, touching your
forehead in steam as you wished your
father had, shooting some great animal
spirit through your veins.

You become music.