Still In the Weeds
The Blues are All Around You
Cool Blue Dawn —for Miles Davis & John Prine Bring me the top of the mountain at the top of the world this dawn top of the morning to stand in the eagle's lair, the air, wind cool, steady, whipping my hair, blue sky far as eye can see, just me on this rock, feathers ruffled, turning blue till you arrive and that makes two, three birds to share this view. Bring me the backyard bluebird, let it sing harmony with the finch in the hedge, dance with the chickadee hopping the spruce trunk, open for the meadowlark's heartbreaking solo of hope hidden in weeds—let Miles scream a bitchy hawk whistle, make Bird squawk camp-robber riffs, have Monk crow and whippoorwill (the only way to go home) and beg Coltrane to blow coda of mourning doves supreme. Bring me the music of birds today, those are the best words of comfort for the feeling of soul, help us learn the language we don't know, this world, this life we love, this light and noise we agree exists, what we see and don't understand, help us forget the threat we constantly fear— knowing we are going to disappear— for some reason it terrifies us to be as fragile and beautiful as birds. Bring me the dream of wings, of freedom aloft, that promise of flight when fate closes and opens the door into birdsong and joy, fearless in the new dawn breaking over the unknown—hearts reborn into a new kind of blue.
Four years ago Drumlummon Institute published In the Weeds, a collection of my poems, during that time we now refer to as “the pandemic.” And just prior to that in 2020, FootHills Publishing issued another book of my poems, mostly cloudy. literally on the day before St. Patrick’s Day, two days before the world shut down. And like most everything else in those two years, the books were overlooked in that “moment” of history. Not that the world hasn’t already seen enough books of my scribbles, and it’s a well-known fact that poetry does not sell as well as other genres of writing, it seems there are a few of you (like me) who still dig reading poetry, so I will continue to keep sharing the shit I write (to entertain myself). I appreciate that some of you buy books and throw a few of your hard-earned nickels my way. Thank you. Regardless, I will continue to play and post (why not? what else am I going to do with it?). Peace, ya’ll.
News From the Front Light on landscape is art if someone sees it that way. Sound is music to those who hear it, the heater fan's whir backed up by Dylan and the engine's purr, maybe your voice joining the choir in your head stomping boots or shoes, whomping leather gloves in time and solidarity to the Workingman's Blues, your breath billowing in the cab, fingers and legs cold-stiff, yet the sun burns warm on your face as you begin another mundane Monday depressing the clutch, engaging reverse, rolling back to roll ahead, shift to first, accelerate into the street, the flow of the week, squinting and savoring the heat on your skin, you smile at this gift for taking it all in, this living to sing softly till the long night begins, a melancholy tribute to working class women and men who created a life, this art of living the blues. —after Dylan again
And sometimes boys & girls just wanna have fun. This one from an old manuscript that may find its way into print someday.
hungry man blues i likes it in the mornin and i takes it afternoons i eats it after supper till my honey-pot she swoons i bangs the pots and i opens her cans swaller all she's gots or all i can stands cause i'm a piggy daddy and mama loves to cook i bellys up to her spread and it's lip smackin good then i flops my big ass back in that easy chair full up and outta gas nothin on but underwear my baby brings me a bromo reclines my lazy boy serves me her sweet cherry pie i devour with sloppy joy i'm her hungry sugarman and her prowlin salty dog when she asks for my pork i slaughters her hog i could end this nonsense by shuttin off the lights won't worry bout the mess cause we'll be up all night lickin our fingers and suckin on bones her meat's so delicious i eats all till it's gone yes, her meat's so dee-lucious i eats it all till she's gone