In the quiet before the storm
I've been deranged buttons undone
dresser up against the wall
coins spilled from pockets
hurled into the night wind
walking home
In blasted noise I've sat in reverence
quiet and unassuming I am sure
to the naked eye
while I am cloaked in amazement
watching the musicians
move mountains and calm rivers
all with their hands
sitting in the harsh wooden chairs
like a tin soldier
watching jazz
at the club
In somewhat pained memories I've sat
running to the sounds of Sinnerman
butt soaking wet
from the grass
where I played guitar
and small puppies
came to smell my feet
In caffeinated mornings I've begun
stomach grumbling
and lips sore from dreaming
speaking in tongues
of all the things
I cannot say
when I am awake
In an unguarded and unjaded trajectory
I have hurled myself even higher
catching the wind
one last time