May 16, 2008 at 7:19 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 15 Comments
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given to you which will never be yours, wandering around looking at yourselves in various dazes, now is the time to reunite common cultures, soon the privileges into which you were born will no longer exist, that is the way of civilizations, of humans, now is the time to find common myths which will require you to exercise your gift in some cause not your own says F. slamming his glass down but i hold the right hand high, he said, and the bastards ignored me again,

but i hold the right hand together as the piano has been drinking not me, doffs his hat, (play an old folk tune, Ry Cooder style, that crossroads song Exu),

‘trane rattles round bend
pick a card any card,
them days are done, son, long gone
now it’s all plastic Paris and painted Helen,
where is she who shot a man in Reno
he sang soon you will see
the cattleyards of Roma


If I Dreamt, I Dreamt A Train.(1)

December 10, 2007 at 5:25 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 4 Comments
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I first wrote a piece by that name fourteen years ago, thundering west into the setting sun to the cattle yards of Roma, as I recall, was the second line and then about purpose, all done with the drive and steel of a much younger man, back when I dreamt of trains.

Now of course, I prefer a slower discourse like nowhere or now here, a sychronicity perhaps or did the founders of the language hide a fundamental truth in that simple construction, now here? It takes less energy to radiate than to thunder.

My first love was Deborah Harry. I was so young that I wasn’t sure why she captivated me in that drab grey frock singing soon found out it was a heart of glass and then later fade away and radiate,

if i dreamt i dreamt a train
thundering west into the setting sun
to the cattleyards of Roma

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