the blues go like this
notes drop through
the ceiling of
your heart
threatening floor boards
fear flooding
the gut, raw emotion.
this shack, washed away
to be rebuilt, if only
you regain composure.
like a postcard
ive seen the
golden gate bridge
on a day when
the mist refused
to burn away
been through china town
almost desolate,
night travelers
such as myself
tinkling down stockton,
so many wind chimes.
autumn leaves
autumn leaves falling
it seems to me,
are refugees
on a death march
prodded along by
a bayonet wind.
torn from boughs
of safety
where they
were once green
and herded
into ditches
to be burned
unceremoniously.
malpelo*
if your father came,
a torn apparition,
like hamlet's, asking
for retribution
your italian sensibilities
would not allow
a princes dalliance.
he does haunt you, malpelo
in the mattock you swing,
in the clothes you wear,
his clothes,
and the oversized shoes
hanging on a nail,
his monument.
you take dangers
with the ease
of the abandoned,
railing against
the sand pit
till it takes you
and the owl looks
not only for your father
but also for you.
*based on the novella Rosso Malpelo by Giovanni Verga
About:
name age professional railroader, frittered away my college years, mistaken for big foot a few times. yadda yadda.
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