THE HURT SONG
The roots of the hurt song
snares the ankles of me, trapping me
in a tangle; the twisting binds me
tighter as the visions speak.
The arrows of my jazz strikes from
hotel room shadows; strange faces
angrily cross over me.
Towns fail to call me home.
My hands are suitcases, reaching to go.
My foot slaps to the beat of release,
like a window of escape or a road
Behind my face the music builds,
filling the back parts of me,
releasing on the stairs of my steps
where I see it all.
Without the singing,
the song is a child without a voice.
Like an easterly sun,
she lifts healing with her words.
The salt of flavor runs with overflow,
rising in a drowning of jazz and her.
Altars of eyes kneel worshiping
with understanding, owning the pain she feels.
Tree tops wave to passing clouds;
she sees the land from there,
weeping for faces left behind.
ONLY THE NOTES
Purposed with feeling
and perfect timing,
his fingers crawl
on the guitar
like a river
Years of sound
wash from him
like a fever
sending deep chills
on the crowd
like a hammer
The music mixes
jazz and life,
as they applaud,
but he hears
only the notes.