I. & As if I were published Prolifically I cram the contents Of my cranium On random receipts & slivers of cardboard Riffing on rapture Alive & well Within the walls of the woodshed
Where 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 Full 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: Freedom Ain’t never been free. But must I die… To become a legend Rescued from oblivion?
II. & As if I could see forever’s Footprints Through the maze Of my vagabond eyes This world All too wary Of its own shadow Appears before me In streams of ultraviolet Consciousness & Autobiographical Daydreams
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—