Ganoosh

A thousand lonely saxes noodling soft
in a steamy bayou;
a small question in earnest,
I hear them calling and I, America,
extend an answer.

Fast and slow,
a single thought impelling all movement
and all moving things,
fresh concrete of stripmalls and grinded shreds of shoe soles
wandering through tracts of hardwooded forest and
whistling grain on open planes.

Look how worn the sidewalks, embattled,
leading where we're going;
a record store, the pawn shop,
the supermarket, and an ancient chorus
pressing singularly through a fog without memory
forcing easily one knobbly forefinger through the bellybutton of Time
asking, still, where are we going?
I America, the saxaphonist, the bail bondsman,
the waiting room of the ER of the Dream of the dream of the dream
sweating bricks through ancient pores screaming out
like a small child, a cat tearing thru garbage with frantic stringy neck hair
curled up in all primal-ness of consumption, the human mind in contraction of rawness, of indefinite angst
asking, still, where are we going?


The question remains still from all yellowed parchment and
forgotten seconds where the sidewalks are leading,
what the outlets are selling.
Daily a family will up and sidestep the stream, setting
table in marginal gutters and eating their sandals,
watching the rest wander determinedly by
flicking specks of grime onto their plates
following the desperation of saxaphones,
the whispering fog, a trail of weeds in concrete cracks.

I've always been an answer somehow,
we're all waiting for me, looking for me myself
to pop out of a manhole riding an alligator
shoooting a roman candle into the sky.

I think I'm not going to ever do that.

I am one note rung by the thrum of multitudes,
from sweat rags and tired belltowers,
a doorknock before supper with lukewarm casserole
gently proferred by trembling hand.
Unity.
I am a spiritless droning cry reverberating through the atmosphere,
some-thing of subtlety, of all-things.
I am gotten into the blood of women and children and men.

And I am blood myself
headed somewhere, too,
to the answer first caught of a whiff by a few hundred men of religion.

It is that my motion is all that is,
that destination is illusion.
I am stops along the way being left behind,
a self-accrued patchwork,
mosaic of time.
I am within the wails of the saxaphones crying
where? where? where?
only one forgotten note among the throng,
so that I will melt into infinity
as sad, pretty time stretches out into barren swamps without end,
blind calloused hands piecing together puzzles of concrete.

__________________
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black

arthur_s

Song? Would like to hear our accompaniment or background! seems to be quite long song

Ganoosh

Nope, not a song.

__________________
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black

vintage x metal

HI. YES. write more write more write more!!! your imagery is really killer in this - sweating bricks through ancient pores, lukewarm casserole, among more; I think it would be a good idea to come back to this in a month or two and tweak it a bit so it will read with a touch more presence. for now, though, great.

__________________

WHALEBLUEREVIEW
searching for fresh writers
pm me if interested