Tuesday, October 16, 2007

A few selections from days gone by


susie sells her socks, but only after church, down by
charlie’s gate, and only to the catholic boys, cause they
have dimes and pennies, pockets full, and blushes on

their cheeks, and when the moon has slipped away, the
doors have darked and shut to strangers, she skips across
the pastor’s lawn, makes her prayers, sly with promise

sly with woman twists, sings her happy patter, and hides
her favorite monies, down in the deacon’s garden, scented
with old granny’s lilacs, scented with some magicks that

her daddy tossed aside, and susie weaves some charms
that would leave her momma danced in pride, wickeds
up the night time airs with fabulous concoctions. oh, yes

our susie, our heart’s delight

- - - - - -


he sat behind a mirror, drinking bourbon sweet and sassy
waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the dawn to warm his
toes, laying riffs up on the window sill, in that same ol’ same ol’

and he dreamed, and he tasted old and salty wounds, and he
sang, chasing katydids, waking up the sugar apple trees, and he
laughed, cause days are short and sleeping’s lost its way

so he rocked, with his daddy’s slow and easy, wrapped in
d.ellington’s aharmony in g, waiting for his lies to lose their
joyful ways, and the sun to rise, and the bourbon turn to scotch

- - - - - - -

lost in queens

i watched his finger tap a samba beat, listening to vivaldi,
but he whispered e.merman jollies from a corner la-z-boy

and still, the sun will set as he darks the air with shades
and little torments, and still, he breathes his minor key
complaints, warbly rodondos, caprices in a sutra style

why am i lost in queens, besotted by some sweet fandango,
causing gently with my old-man and sillied by the sun

why do i fill him up with my 7-penny stories, buy vanilla
frapaccinos for this malted debonair, in his store front
parlor, in his lounge left discarded by a disco dancing swell

he’s drawn with such casual dissidence, a jangly composition
and relishes my lies with a hunger raw and sharpened for a feast

or have we simply been misplaced, and chance would have us
make our waltz, make us giddy with our heady and flamboyant
spins, a doo-wop boy and a barber with a sunday night despair

give me my salty whiskey, if i’m to while away the day, so i can
sing some janis joplin, and listen to vivaldi, and finally go my way


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