roger singer | sidewalk man | the up of release | finally breathing


Moving masses of sidewalk faces
march hard past the man singing
to the heaven of streetlights above him.

A soothing calmness softens soulless hearts;
selfish gazes feel the power of
a voice separating man from god.

Hands create a metal rain of coins,
stripped from unwilling pockets
ringing his untied laces;
the length of his pain rises from wells
of without.

He flavors the air with the
cool of jazz within him,
brightening the
gray of life as his voice bleeds
stale air dry of loss;
angels watch over him with favor.


The music of you
is a ribbon untied;
streams of silk break
free like summer
stars on the foreheads
of angels.
I pull myself into a thick,
as if running under water.
I become trapped
in the listening
of the jazz
like the first time it
blanketed me.
A rocking upside
down motion
in my head
breaks the bondage
into sweet release.
I lift my eyes
meadow wide
and arm opening
to the sweet talk
of music
pulling me up.


The engine of his air released greatly into
a jeweled sound of words lifted from
caves and corners only of his walking.
In the steps of his shoes a message follows,
bearing the dust of a beginning, beyond what I
have faith to bear.

I stand as if uncovered, born for the first
time, breathing as if I had never inhaled the
aroma of sound. Naked is the listening
part of me until clothed by the strong cloth
spread by his hands.

Never the same, I refresh under the water
of him, soaking up the music, drowning my hate,
replacing my hope.

Dreams are places we name once we arrive.

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