eric dolphy plays along with the birds
outside his window
there's so much more to music
than putting fingers
in the correct position
than black & white power of jurisdiction
or shooting indiscriminately
at marks jumping
off the line
its a spiritual outburst
that doesn't start with electricity
in the bell
or even on the lips
of an articulate man
it originates in a much deeper place
that's behind everything we see
& one step ahead
of what we imagine
clustered notes
in a ball of clay
that we squeeze out
to our satisfaction
broken rosary beads
rolling away
in too many different directions
to catch them all
sunday morning
while driving home bleary-eyed
after an all night saturday
that bounced back & forth
from lovefest
& all torn down
to the best
of my recollection
i curse the eastern sun
& country / western radio
slip in "the harder they come" soundtrack
to drown out church bells
that sadden me
in more ways
than i can tell
that cut much deeper
than religion ever could
all the way
to the latin inscription
under the heart
that's been misinterpreted
for years
spin
nothing is put here
for strictly decorative purposes
i'm
convinced
there's probably some long german word
that sums it up perfectly
how on earth
the world knows exactly
how many r.p.m.s
to crank it up to
so that everything
can get settled in
so that every assumption
can find its own balance
from "somewhere"
somewhere a highlight reel from christmas 1960
plays over & over
to standing room only crowds
& the star of the show
can't even get a seat
somewhere an adolescent boy
is drawn to an unreasonable situation
& it's too early to tell
if it will be a positive
or negative experience
somewhere a lone sparrow
circles what could pass as tomorrow
wondering if that's where
he really wants to be
somewhere a left hand explodes
out of a hypothetical question
scattering anyone within earshot
somewhere a flickering candle
brings strangers together
into a random account of a familiar story
somewhere a table is cluttered
with someone's absence
& someone else is left holding the bag
because thy didn't have the sense to bolt
when the legs started to shake
somewhere there are a dozen televisions
all tuned to the same station
& they all tell a different story
somewhere between static
& that california sound
is an applachian innocent
with frozen toes
& strange ideas about romance
somewhere a lovelorn poet
recites an ode at gunpoint
& no one will hear a thing
somewhere a former mail order bride
sees a little of her father in all men
& it's not a pretty picture
somewhere there's a calendar from 1978
nailed to the wall of a gutted apartment
that no one paid attention to then
but they'd give anything
to have it now
somewhere a lop-sided loser
sings the strychnine blues
with authority & authenticity
but nobody will buy what he says
until his tragic demise
somewhere a well paid newscaster
mispronounces the names of every poor soul
laid to rest in potter's field
somewhere a soft spoken storyteller
who wouldn't hurt a fly
confesses to a total stranger
every atrocity ever committed against mankind
& the stranger wonders
if there could be a grain of truth
in his words
somewhere in the midwest
the grey esthetic of a bus station
conjures up a strange, prophetic vision
that's bound to be misunderstood
the quintessential right place
wrong time scenario
somewhere a promiscuous romeo
with a short memory
is awakened by an unfamiliar voice
asking him if he recognizes these words
& of course he doesn't
somewhere a dysfunctional family
is slicing their daily bread
bickering over the proper way
to hold a knife
somewhere an unhappy couple
checks into the last resort
& there are headlines
written all over the walls
of their room
