hand washing a red pan
when another banjo event
enters my head
somebody riding a goat
what is the matter with that instrument?
tuned by the devil, they used to say
why does it keep playing
those rogue songs?
now it's playing Old Dan Tucker
must be Dick's spirit
coming round for his birthday
Down the Old Plank Road
trees that dream
all green and gold
must be a concern
lithe and windy
since, who can translate
subtle rainfall on leaves
those messages their spirits
send
I have problems with my angels
I guess
they were recruited in New York
seriously
when I begged for help
"we're helping you, already."
whadda relationship
the dream path of the dead
chilling but
not that helpful
what the darkness says about it
is too low to hear
we need
a big shamanic drum to beat
points of light
shining
like prayers signing the way
my bones are hollowed out
playing a low raspy lament
a song to make the dead return
but they were told to never
look back
wind from the bay
wet and insistent
Monday morning shuttle
going nowhere
weaving trees, their
shadow and light
it's easy
in times of deep loss
to give into death
and it tows you with all its
dark energy
alluring and beautiful
to the Butterfly Nebula
the bones of a long dead sun
immeasurable, well beyond our knowing
for our fragile, geocentric being
look for a minute or two
not much more
