Sunday, March 29, 2009

Night Balance

Divided minds like forlorn tears and salted syllables spoken as: 'batter up' in tobacco tongue, blind umpires of played justice. Sing to me the praises of love. Sing to me the Cuban cigar, the bandannas of sugar cane machetes under the Caribbean sun. Silence is operatic winter. Silence is the singer of child Mozart; Schopenhaur on atonal madness. Can you hear the beat of the heart? The beat of tabla drums played on twisted, riled-up tundras of blooming revolution? Can you see? Can you see the minute scars of the milliner's soul? Can you see the homburg mad hatter in leather vest and silken voice? Drink with me to the carotid artery, the gateway to cracked veneer of old civility. I know you do. I know you do. I know you're need to shed the conformity of a mother's words, a father's silent burnt offerings of lost dreams. Piece together Ginsberg's lament. String along dead Cassiday on hollow wheels. Paint the name Ferleghetti on San Francisco beats of poetic beads. Kerouac in hep cat speed. Troopers of police justice. Billy clubs. Night Sticks. Mace and handcuffs. Jail time and torpor mind defense lawyers walking abreast of avatars, of Hell Cats lost in darkened sheep skin. Where are you blacktop 66? Where are you now? On The Road? Big Sur? Howling like the worst mind of time immemorial? Answer me yes and no. Answer me signing language with missing fingers on angel's hand. I know to ask, but to expect little. Little and think smaller until the morning ends and ends and the circular vision of rounded and dying reveries, seeping into the watchman's night.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is fucking brilliant SC. Love it. You got a boxer's heart and beat poet's tongue. The mind of a reluctant scientist and the soul of a bluesman. Waiting for the ultimate drink. Well, buck up, because the Bartender is everything.