We got here by train It runs the tracks Wednesday nights I'm feeling blue in San Francisco My brother says The city pulls Me by the collar A white man in the station Sang a song for me And my tape recorder But I didn't press The right button A Black man played An electric … Continue reading Feeling Blue in San Francisco
Hey now here's Jimmy, the fellow who says he'd live in the last line of a Dickinson poem if the publisher had some extra space. Jimmy's blank as book paper. You see now Jimmy here's a mirror for the world, so when you look at him good in the morning, and he points out that … Continue reading Ode to Jimmy
I imagine that standing on ledges is a little like watching white smoke and smelling tire rubber if you're not sure where they came from.
I button my coat and step outside, leaving room between my gloves for a handshake. Here, no one. One of the street lamps standing at the edge of the lawn colors everything yellow except the night it won’t let you see: stars, moon, cadence, motion. Si j’ai des rêves ills sont pour l’amour ou la mort, … Continue reading Home
Because I knew Mama's garden's roses, I knew all roses. They (all) were white ones and pink ones, maybe florescent too if my eyes were young enough. Of course I'd ask if I could eat them (because they were so pretty). Were they dangerous? She says no, but they are bitter; better take them with our … Continue reading Roses