i can’t come home
my homelessness belongs
to you
to music
there is a tiny tendril of a violin
coming up like a newborn blade
of
grass
love me all the time and never leave me
please come on back to me you’re lonely as can be
you sing
that is what began the axe
fall
a swift
thwack
as the blade severed
you
that’s when it hurt me
please remember
fragmented
without you
see
just
me
you
need
i
you
a jangly guitar
spangles
it’s red way to the leathery handed strumming
of the bitter tones
of
the dress
rehearsal rag
it’s come to this
long
way
down
a smashup of experiences from a long cast of characters
weaving in like the gnarled family tree of a
generation of
players
but you can’t write the same words again
that will only become a
refrain
and will have strayed from the Word’s
original
intent
the Hollow earth
is filled again
filled
to overflowing
a forceful spewing of the words of many minds
come
one minded
as L. Cohen encourages you
to join
the Rosicrucians
this could have swept you up once
and carried you
a
long
way
down
but now you have passed through so many fires
seven
of them
and you’re a bit frayed around your edges
but
that was just the
dress
rehearsal
rag
