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POEMS

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Birdland

 Writing in red
I wasn’t even born
When that horn
Blew away a generation
And if the movie news is anywhere near
The shysters all had faces
And backstair offices
Were the places
Where real people
Pulled the strings
On everything
But the gaps between gigs don’t change
And you can still work in Paris if you’re lucky.
Shit, I’m not even fucked up
But I plan shows like a junkie
And never quite get them beyond my imagination.
Dream on and let the moon bring in the harvest
For this is Alba where the bard is king
And musicians no more than interlude
Where a brother is screwed
Even before the mouthpiece gets wet
Where few have yet caught on
That in the beginning was the sound
And the sound was round and way, way down
But it would appear
Somebody had a little trouble with the translation
And they heard word
Letters to intercede between need and greed
So when Johnny comes marching home
He wont have tune or lyric in his head
He’ll have goals instead
And he’ll get it all one way or another
And he’ll go to the movies
Every once in a while
And smile
As he catches a story or two
About some seriously disturbed individuals
Who try to tell him there’s more to life than selling out
And if he wants
He can help stop the music from being stolen.
Writing in red
I am making notes shaped like words
But that is only to fool them.