The Mill

The Bar.

“What’s up stoopid.”

Tara sat down across from me, her brown hair blocking the clock on the church across the street. Fortunately , part of the sun as well.

“What is that brain working on now? Who brings a book to a bar anyway?”

I stared. what do you want Tara?

I had to admit, it felt weird coming back home…the mills closed. Empty buildings, like coffins, waiting for their dead or a hotel with empty floors…just shadows of memory.

Tara smiled, lit a cigarette,

You know, you have to be 21 now.

Hey, we‘re all older.

She laughed.

I closed my book.

Asking myself why I came back home…but I really, already knew.

Maybe that was what bothered me.

Tara hadn’t changed that much. She had a way of moving through the weights and the hard moments. Seemingly unscathed.

I was not so lucky.

I took a breath. Feeling flashes of my childhood walking past me in the street.

The last dream you built

The last year inside the house you built

She said it’s ok if you can’t sleep

It’s just the sounds inside your head

All the stories you dread

It only takes some time

To get used to

—–

Outside

The clown goes mad

The media’s on repeat

He can’t figure out

It’s all marketing

He’s selling the future

But he’s still standing there naked

——

Inside

And up the stairs

Dylan lights a match

Stops and laughs

Says he’s about to go electric

I stop typing

And hand him another cigarette

—–

Down the street on the corner

Of lost and found

Seeking out some caffeine

Her eyes keep me at arms length

I reached in my pocket

Handed her a Honees

She smiled running her fingers through my hair

And kissed me

—-

Hendrix walks in

Sighing, asked for some help with his lyric….

—–

These times are all black and white

The youths ran away

With the color….

She cries

And says there’s no more room left to create in

I laughed

And said the sky is falling over

It’s only, the mirror…

Storms

She makes storms

Out of hours

She makes deserts

Cry out for rain

She makes winter

Pray for summer

But she’s been a friend to me

Her fist have always been Clinched

Her hair has always been red

Her lips have always been red

She’s the realest thing

I’ve ever known

And I’d stand

Out every winter

Just hoping for a look from her

She keeps me happy

And she went down to New Orleans

And bewitched the devil

And she fights

The ghost

She loves the most

But you might not see it

And her fist

Have always been Clinched

And

She’s always been red

But she’s always been real

To me

(Written and performed tonight at 33)

Morning youth

I wake up to the morning sky

Foggy

Overcast

Thick

Of memory

Grey and lit with shadows

Overcast dreams

Nightmares

Of wrong and write

I see the light

And tell myself everything is O.K.

Get up

Come on up

Didn’t they tell you

History is written

Remembered

By those who win?

These fading chords

Bleeding ink

Words on paper

Are just tomorrow’s memory

Did you read between the lines?

The love letters in the margins?

“Will you remember me?”

“Not like I used to…”

Come on up

The cards have been dealt

I pour my tea

I sit and write

Here inside

The morning light….

The Ballad of Anne Hall

Anne Hall

Hear her call

She lives in the RV at the end of it all

5 little ones

Everyone knows she just can’t feed anymore

If houses are homes

Well hers

it’s coming down

And winter it keeps coming

But summer is hell

But they kept saying

Anne you can have it all

If you just clean up a little

Smile a little more

And Anne

She keeps praying

She keeps praying that her kids just won’t wake up to this anymore.

The rain was thundering

The lightning crashing

Like a ship breaking through a shore

A tornado

Like the finger of god

Scorched the earth across town

Everyone’s eyes were blind

The hunger

Was passed off

As crazy

eyes of Anne

Until

One night

The rain thundered down

She came to the Emergency

The blood ran down

Like the rain against the windows of everyone’s white washed streets

Anne prayed don’t let me have another mouth to feed

And everyone met again

At the square

Now Anne

doesn’t have a dollar to pay for her pills or her bills

And Anne couldn’t make the trip

Anne Hall

Hear her call

The day they put Anne in the ground

At the back of the gate

the council met

Behind doors that locked

And children with filled stomachs

Tucked away in their beds

and a hard rain fell

It fell

And in the emergency

A new mother cries …

And even today

Everyone is quiet when they pass by

Where there was an RV at the end of it all…

30 for 30 (She’s going to make me lonesome when she goes)

October 1st

She smokes her cigaret

Stares out the dirty windows

Waiting for someone to come in

She feels paranoid

But when they do come in

She sits with them

Pours them a cup of tea

Makes sarcastic remarks

She gives them books to read

A trail of smoke follows her every where she goes

Her red hair is pulled up under a bandana

Her green eyes carry an age to them …

November 15th

Everyone that comes in leaves

With a story

For the last five years

It’s been me

We all want something

We want to be something

We believe we are making a mark

She has so many opinions

And ideas

She plays the piano

And thinks it’s funny

It being in a library

Dec 12th

I believe she is a muse

Not in the way we use it now

But in the, what is it? The original way

Muses were something that came to an artist

And helped them make art

Dec 24th

I don’t think she knows…

Jan 13th

She’s clouded

And heavy

Maybe she has been around for too long

Or for such a long time

She has forgotten

She is unhappy

Smokes more

Drinks more

Sleeps all day

Doesn’t get up

Or come sit with me like she used to

She just lets me use the library

I cannot write like I used to

I’ve asked her to go away with me

I think she is going away

But alone

she doesn’t laugh

She won’t drink tea anymore

The sunlight doesn’t come in the windows anymore

She’s going to make me lonesome when she goes…

Sept 20th

It’s been a long time since I’ve last written.

But I think I’ve carved out a way.

To just sit and work…

October 31st

I thought I saw her today

In a bookstore

It was just a moment

A flash of red

But

She looked happy .

Who knows what a muse is?

But maybe

Just maybe

They help us find our way

And our voice…

Who is to say anything is really gone?

Maybe they are there

In ordinary places

Doing ordinary things.

waiting for us to be unexpected

And

extraordinary.