Deep in the flush of a dhow,
Unknown by a physics of fate that, in spires, ordains,
“Loose change, man? Can ya spare a dime?”
Ya got any loose change, man?”
I heard his noise shuffle off in the nighttime.
He couldn’t get it right, ya know?
He used to say, “Are you a fan?
Ya gotta dime?
Ya gotta nickel?
I needa bag, man.
I needa go down the hall,
Needa make a call.”
Now, all he wanted was a Snickers Bar,
Or he’d take the subway for Mars.
Shufflin’ off to
“Me,” I ask the boy.
“No, man, long time passed, echoing, past,
And I got my change,
But it won’t last.
It ain’t for you,
My change, you can’t use,
Ya don’t need a dime, nomore, ma friend.
Ya can’t change the call,
And the call can’t change you.”
“Hey, ya got’ny change lef’, Buddy?”
He wadden list’nin’ anymore.
He danced the tune of the shuffle,
The Thorazine Shuffle.
An’ he shuffled offta
He’d walk on down, walk on down.
He couldn’ remember to make change,
But he did afine piano, man.
He remembered to play a mean piano,
And tickle the ivory.
I heard ‘im play a beautiful piano.
He knew I was changing,
He even knew I could try.
He wanted ma loose change,
But he couldn’ remember why.
“You gotta dime, I’ll take a nickel.
I need the change, I need the ruffle.
I don’t need a bag.”
He got the shuffle, the Thorazine Shuffle.
“I can use the change,
I don’t need the bars,
But I’ll go for Mars
Dancin’ this shuffle,
The Thorazine Shuffle,
“Can ya spare some change, Bro?”
“No, man, ya gotta shuffle.
Remember the keys, it takes ya downtown,
To dance, man, dance to yer tune.
For you, ma friend, bein’ lost, is bein’ found.”
Pause, an untilled moment –
The hoary spider, she freezes in the heat on a tree,
Wait, a smaller degree in her feet.
One leg into the future, the rest in the past,
It makes her look hydraulic, robotic,
Sister of Tarantella, a profane recluse
In her queen’s walk, she rides, eight-legged and cloaked,
Naked on a stalk, and an Ash, her strain is a stall, in the white,
The tension, her art, and the dance,
Ah, the dance: rhyme, offbeat, sublime.
An angel hair weaver, Divineress of the Span,
She bridges a moment for glory 'n beast.
Her carbolic tongue, fire to ripen the gory 'n feast.
Counterfeit standing, one's soul commencement
Unfolding her impending shift.
Making her century forestall the moment,
Folding that moment, to stall the century,
A crawl, a stay, her web in the day.
The Spread, her milling in space, her legs-all-asplay,
Is the coming, in time with the Wheel,
While it’s going, each step, in the space of her threading.
Is the oblong, circular work of waiting.
As the bark is the skin, on the tree,
And the dance of White Ash in the wind.
From my memories of you
I smell a scent
Of Cherokee and swamp,
Flooding what seamed my life.
A time and essence without the glory
I hunted, the honor I wanted.
Between moments, instances,
From the frost of a near dead heart,
To a clarified honesty,
Came you, with a rarified air
For whom there springs
From the hosts, a near dread.
Between the dawn
You have been the metaphor
For the conflict of betweens and betwixts.
The distance between cars and cares
And the daylight.
To have forgotten the soul’s painful hurt in childhood innocence, keeps us from crying our way through life. And, so, having to hide that hurt behind cruel curtains of behavior, we grow into the corruptions of reality, finally understanding more about the necessity for forgiveness and mercy, and then those memories are brought back to us in whispers that sometimes feel like thunderous bolts of lightning thrumming through our being. The pain that comes along with it, lies in the space between the wounded flesh, not from the flesh itself, answering the questions, “Where does pain come from? Where does it live inside us?” It’s always at the edges of our being, and is not part of us, though it feels so, reminding us that we are not completely ruled by society as well as by a genetics of fear, those chains that bind us to terror in living and loving. There is also a genetics of memory that goes beyond pain, reminding us of others from whom we come. Those whose lives are lives of beauty and grace. We go back a long way, to