The Atlantic Delta

Skip James sings the blues
And I drink mine
Dark Stout for a rainy day
The sky almost as dark
As the deepest recesses of my mind
Or even the severed and tattered strata
Of that muscle that pumps the blood
Throughout this aching, weary body of mine.

Drinkin' the memories down with a bottle,
Howlin' the blues
Crying out to be heard
Through thin apartment walls,
Into the damp and cold streets,
Past families that are tucked in, waiting for tomorrow
Beyond the man who lives in the cardboard box on 17th street
Around the corner from the child who lives in the youth center
Next door to the woman who stole you away
Through walls of icy glass
Into your heart.

Fingers play on a guitar
As my fingers play on this bottle, my second of many for the night
And my mind plays on times when being alone
Did not seem like a sentence of solitary confinement;
The silence broken only by the crackled recording
Of an old delta bluesman,
My uneven sobs,
And the sound of my bottle as I rest it unevenly on the table.

Water on a Tile

There was pool of water from yesterday
Resting on the tiles of the backyard
And I watched the world ripple and blur and be still
With the meanderings of the wind,
The reflection clouds seeming so close
A world that I could step into and touch.

If only the world that I watched
Was like the world that I live,
Aspiratons as close as that sky seemed to me,
Fall's branches still clinging to the life left
A brilliant burst of color
As is sings its last breath
Cold and silent until the birth of spring calls again
For life to come out and play.

If I could, I would reach to you
And whisper a tale
Of a girl caught between reflections of what could be
And solidity of what is,
Her mind as fleeting
As the wind on the water of a pond
So small a body of water,
That she is the only one who knows
That it is there.

Breathing

Workdays have an added dimension,
Restless thoughts fly back and forth
Gentle pressure, applied so well
Has brought forth a sigh from deep within
That manifests through the day
Like a gnawing hunger for something sweet
And she has to cross her legs again
Her heart quickening
As an echo of touch is felt once more.

The screen blurs;
She scarcely noticed what was on there
As she catches her breath
Remembering a surrender into strong hands,
A decision to not make decisions,
The closing of eyes, falling back
Not sure if she would be caught
Or if the world would swallow her up whole,
As limitless and dark as the tiny pit of fear,
Which is known by some as desire,
That has made its presence quietly known since she was a young girl.

Then, in an instant, she is back,
The screen is clear,
As is the mind,
Laughing to herself about Basinger and Rourke
And stories of O’s
And other letters of the alphabet.

Her legs are still crossed.