(At the Threshold of) Tomorrow

Circa 2014: Survival

The Free Association of Woodshedding

“We are the music makers…”

— Arthur O’Shaughnessy

I. &
  As if
        I were published
        I cram the contents
        Of my cranium
        On random receipts
        & slivers of cardboard
        Riffing on rapture
        Alive & well
        Within the walls of the woodshed
 As if
    I were a virtuoso
    Soloing in the native tongue
        Of the versaphone
    Singing of lady soul
        Within me
            (because she is my queen
                               my everything)
    Searching for my purpose within truth
     Discovering the truth within beauty
    Carving a brand new nuance of meaning
On the tabula rasa of expression

This is my story
    My song
    Of what
        Was the blues
Then & now
Catapulted from the canon
Of recollection
    Into the crucible of identity
    Onto the canvas of individuality
Conforming only to the persistence of memory

Never giving up the ghost of yesterday
Winning at the end of the way

Wisdom wont
(even in the grasp of death)
To life
Which wills the lungs
Inside me
Expanding & expending
Every breath
Into a souliloquy that sighs:
Ain’t never been free.
But must I die…
To become a legend
Rescued from oblivion?

II. &
  As if
        I could see forever’s
            Through the maze
                Of my vagabond eyes
        This world
        All too wary
        Of its own shadow
            Appears before me
                In streams of ultraviolet

        Scaling the heights of the horizon on breaths of air
        That summon sundry silhouettes
                    Of once slippery memories
        Skating their way into the immortal
        Fusion            of life & death
        Stirring up the sound
                    Of far off drums
        From the distant past, in the jazz
                    Of our kissing bodies

        Conceiving another universe in the womb of mother earth
        As she scores love (the only song there is)
        Into the porous pulse playing within our passion—
        Making music
        That dreams

(This poem is the fusion of parts from 5 different (older) poems.)

Xcerpt #4 — Ode to Langston Hughes

(the return of the drum)

This rhythm
Your vision

To begin again

My umbra

Of blue. you told
Me, “bear in mind that death
Is a drum…calling life to come.”

In the wombiverse
Rooted like
Thoughts coded in the cord
That is mind, I know I’ve grown,

From a seed
To the soulflower
Blooming like “tomorrow bright 
Before us,” calling

You to me as though a beat beyond life
Still you drum the psalms
Of faith, hope and love’s azure

On fire, burning beneath beautiful
Ones not yet born, where age

Is embodied in innocence
Of the sun kissing the horizon
But for us to

Drum “a world” where everyone is free
Seems too perfect a dream for Mother Earth to conceive
Still/birth and its many complications are always rough on


Walking in Space

        (or: rediscovering the beauty of life)

Staring at the stern face of the horizon
Meandering among the melodies of the sea


Have fled the pain of my oblivious bane
Chasing away clouds  painting rainbows  as I


Gazing into the eyes of the universe
Writing as I breathe in its conscious