Behind every dark night of the soul there's
a victimless crime w/yr name on it
& babies get tossed like kitchen
sinks from 8-story windows
only to land w/a thud in the middle of
yr violin solo
Expecting it all to rattle down into the sand
is one way to say it
clang. wiggle. crash. blink.
The Art of the Fugue
& the band plays & the road hums
inside a cloak of sea mist that
thins out as the sun climbs into a flat blue sky
as though it was a litmus test gone terribly wrong
You could always just chug-a-lug a quart of Pennzoil
& go splashing thru puddles on the ocean floor
listening to seagulls riffing on something
Fats Navarro played in 1950
recorded a week before he died
& the wind shifts off-shore to hollow out the waves
that Spring morning at Playa San Pedrito
as I drained the last of the tequila & w/numb fingers
unlaced my sneakers
Some things are given to you
while other things are taken away