the fragmenting collisions of our worlds

we are flung far out then out past the mirror

we look inside then inside where the damage is

what tender humility scabbed over with pride

i am adrift then adrift in the quietude before life

in the endless morning of potential where i learn to sing

i learn to sing that song about every other song

in the breathless time of dawn i begin my song

the words are shadows

the drums are the knocks in the plumbing in some distant apartment

the bass is the traffic groaning in avenues of cars

the guitars are the one hundred planes in the sky above

the piano is the ringing in my own ears

the strings are the curtains flailing in the wind

the choir is the hum of great buses spitting out passengers

the sea fog slightly mutes all the notes

i am playing at a bar on the new jersey coast

underground in a blue room i strum my 12 string guitar

i open my mouths and out comes my voices

i open my voices out comes the stories

how the swallowed land recedes from us still

out of our memories out of our earshots

black madonna in a painting by jean paul mozart

study the methods and layers of appearances

understand the subtle lapses in seconds

when your god could rush in

or your devil rush in

or your crooked lines straightened with no delicious painkiller

or your miracle escape from the prisons of heaven

or the time you walked home by the light of a star

or your allegations that live in a swamp called desire

or your shabby excellence in putting it off

or your song about alaska making it hot

deep in these caves the songs reverberating liberating feelings within

i point my guitar at the silence and shoot down a song

it screams for a while and struggles to get up

but you clobber it with the kick and the snare

i got another one ….there……

the song tries to stagger but you step up behind it

the song turns around you catch it and bend it

you rip out its chorus you stretch out its verses

the old parts of the song lie in pieces around you

the new song comes along out of your head all rubbery

assassin in the shrubbery

a work of singular duplicity

of such simple complexity

and enduring brevity

yet ending inconclusively