January 5, 2020

Not for sure I’m quite here yet, 
spending time, 
wasting time, 
time seduced by fireworks and frills, 

distraction not being a place, 
a detour, yes, 
a movement smooth and effortless,
away from place and a time notched in meaning. 

Too bad, 
oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled 
in imagined past, and future projection, 
fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs;
unanchored and drifting, 
in the current of lost, 
the waves of losing: 
tactile evidence grounding presence in the world.

Waving the tattered flag of surrender, 
a half-hearted life of neglect:
of discernment of porous beliefs, 
of connections barren and uncultivated, 
sometimes careless, often clueless 
to the ever-changing interdependence,

registering spikes of false confidence,
convinced that
when things go south
it isn’t you.

The Moody Gospel

The impoverish soprano saxophone improvisation
kills the Moody Gospel 
in an free wheeling jam session;
a series of inconsistent contradictions,
refusals to be contacted,
doing his dirty work, 
by proxy.

You think it's money, 
it's not;
it's personality,
and you haven't got one lieutenant.

What has he got that Susie likes? 
Lost his leg to a home town sweetheart,
a feeble alibi for amorality.
Your every move is obvious,
all antisocial perversion of value, 
not cleverness, not imagination, 
just brute force.

The line of wolves who are nothing to anyone.
You are 
Genghis Khan, 
Alexander the Great, 
Caesar -
Yes, they were skilled; 
but were they subversive?