Since 1996 Volume XXI
A STORY INTERRUPTED BY SNOW
Each sinewy strand of sadness
rolls off his tongue like compressed
bagpipes. When he says love
it sounds like bug or a persistent cough.
Like a bad tooth. I want to say yank on it,
sucker, but he's buying drugs from me.
I know more than he does,
having swallowed more evidence.
Iím not selling happy endings,
just additional chapters in a never-
ending scrapbook of despair.
Though neither of us quite calls it that.
Whatís he love? What I have. The story
never unfolds -- it just uncrumples
from its wadded ball, and even then
it's a cryptic fragment. The manís going to
tune up his lopsided piano and slow dance
with the devilís third wife, or maybe just nod off
into the bittersweet taste of limbo. He doesnít need
directions. Love? Did he really say love?
When he walks away, I briefly
dispute the money already pocketed.
ĎMore where that came fromíómy theme song,
and lazy snow whispering down from the sky
is the chorus. Everythingís negotiable,
even blame. Donít take the worldís hum
for granted, and donít take the Lordís name
with you when it wants to stay put.
If youíve never imagined
yourself here, then your imagination
is just a hot iron pressing out the wrinkles.
Just look at the snow, dude.
Snow, and the tracks.