Leading me through 1963
in Chicago, you and
your Sketches of Spain; always playing in my
top floor apartment on
State street north.
There is no doubt Rodrigo’s heart
sang and sang, when he heard
I was just a snot-nosed
kid, drunk on Black Label beer
and Benzedrine inhalers,
cruising the Puerto Rican bars
on north Clark looking for
16 year old girls,
with stunning eyes like coal.
Beautiful, red haired Patricia,
she tried to straighten me out, attempted to
adjust my tormented sights.
But I had to live, or die in the bohemian life
The old hi-fi I brought up from Indiana
rumbled and flashed the melancholy joy of you,
and my tears would flow
as I listened to your horn
create spheres and dimensions I never knew
human beings were allowed to touch;
colors so bright and whirling,
how could the whole earth not be as amazed as I?