I get the soul’s impression
that all prose burn in heaven.
Each homeward bound confession
chased tales back and forth.
Bipolar dreams depression
that yearn for common ground,
a fingers length extension
too tame to make a sound.
If all dogs go to heaven
who’s there left to be found?
A mother’s womb that’s kickin
an unborn Ezra Pound.
It’s with this last expression
your love comes to me now.
Released to death’s progression
a compass pointing north.
This guy at the bar the other night
tells me my poetry aren’t poems
but rather songs
as he takes my phone
and begins singing them to himself.
These are great man, he says
really good stuff here,
as he sings, flipping back his hair.
And I don’t stop him, because why
would I stop someone
who’s turned my pain into pleasure
when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.
Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!
You don’t even have to read between the lines.
With all their talk about cold, cold hearts,
bouncing between heartache and chord progression
like a broken record, it’s apparent
why these yodeling old cowboys are obsolete.
Did they ever really sound that good in their time?
At least the melodies sound good, silly boys
if I could remove your voice, I would,
and in its place insert the songs of a woman,
who’s light shines brighter than your sorrow.
Mercedes-Benz – now that’s a song with heart.