Followed a trail of footprints
along the
beach today. I could hear music
far out
in the depths; a siren with hair
of gold,
calling me to follow to a place
that few
could ever go, not waving but
singing.
Who perfected the funk? I think I
know;
a stoned prince high on his own
supply
of uncut soul, wearing euphoria as
a robe.
Here you come with mud in your
veins;
thank you (falettinme dance
again).
I found this poem in a dead man’s
papers
beside a photo of my credulous
teenage alias,
too young to uncover your
conspiracy of word
and shadow. I filed it away,
marking it Eyes Only,
not suspecting those eyes would be
mine.
I was an Alpha child too, raised
in the orbit of a fading
satellite,
sometimes aligning with my own.
I grow more distant every year,
a displaced moon spinning away
in the empty and eternal dark.
I heard you served with the
4077th,
an instrument of sanity in the
madness
of operations gone wrong, in a
show
we would like to forget but
cannot,
a tragedy wearing comedy’s scrubs.
I came to the gallery of glass,
pressed my face against the pane
to glimpse art and word, a strain
of song. A man of easy gravitas
said I curate what genius
knows:
that an open mind is hard to
close.
We write for the lonely, for those
who cry the whole night through,
who see only black where others
see purple and orange and blue.
The rainbow drowns in that river
we cried to bring a song to you.