Wednesday, May 2nd, 2012...6:31 pm

roger singer | a river full & backroom

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A RIVER FULL

This ground is mine.
I sweat it into growing.
My eyes water the sound
while my hands grasp
the dirt,
holding its generations
of dust and stone
with a blending of blood
curing the colors
making it good and right
with sweet aroma
passing through my hair
rich with oils
thick with black,
the standard of then
and the fuel of now
as my tongue licks at fire
I breathe a river,
filling my veins
with grit and sand
and the run off of man
hot and speaking
and smacking life
into ears that hear
that this place is my
kingdom,
my altar, my place of rest,
the jazz I see
and the jazz I own.

BACKROOM

Late,
when evening rolls up,
I walked out and into the
New Orleans machine.
The wet heat rubbed my skin
as I searched,
passing weak street lights
and afternoon puddles,
I feel a softer air ripen
with flavor,
like baskets tipping
the harvest out.
High cotton,
fails at him. He’s up from
the bottom,
surface living,
throwing dust from
steps every night
into backrooms
where he spreads
secrets in songs.
Finally,
I hear the guitar,
the heart of his fingers
slapping alive the voice
that pulses a river of sound
into my shoes.

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