THE NOISE
for Natalie
What is this word
not spoken but spelled
by your hips?
A word my blood knows, Lady—
the day spins with it!
Seven letters written
in the soft shine on your lips.
Ahhh.
___________
Shouldn’t the heart be allowed
a thousand loves, to hold at least
half of what it wants? Or maybe
just a kiss and a hug. I’m trying
to keep my balance, trying not to
act up—stare salaciously, bark
like a squirrel, but look how long
death is—and how it lingers, how
in comparison, a life is an inch-worm
limping its inchy way up the most
unhelpful goddam tree!
___________
Isn’t madness the most
reasonable thing? These words
in my head, this hive
of stutters. I’m on the fade
but keep coming back
to that good light, your
long legs, that slow walk—
I can’t believe
you’re moving at all.
Shhhh.
No use arguing!
___________
Sometimes I think the noise
of what I feel should be enough
to make everybody less likely
to give up, less likely to let loneliness
have its way—so I shake my soul
like Crackerjacks, bang my head
like a kettle drum. When the Spirit
doesn’t answer, isn’t this racket
exactly what it wants to say?
___________
Maybe life is just a few names
swung into motion.
Someone calls out, “Tim, how are you?”
I turn around hoping
someone can tell me. What I understand
is so small, so quick: it disappears
like a hummingbird’s fart!
Even Rumi shrugs at what I mean.
Huuuu.
___________
But sometimes my heart
knocks me over
like some brand new brazen beast—
so much hope, so many thirsty cups.
Lady, I want your thighs around me
like Daylight—like wild grass
wants all that green. Look,
I’d like to, but I can’t
shut up. I keep getting older:
and this is no dream!
ODE TO THE BANJO
Not the cold night howl of the cello, not the soul-rolling scold
of the sax—no flashfire frenzy
of flamenco guitar, nor
the oboe's hypnotic threnody.
We all know your call, Brother Banjo: your sweet choirs of glee,
the giggle of children spritzing your frets, that touch of puppy-love: ecstatic
and blue, each note quick, complete
as if your pot belly were already almost too full to speak. Where
did you get that savory tang? How far have you traveled?
What oceans, what ancient music still
stashed in your magic bones? The ngoni, the lute-like xalam,
the long-necked akonting: your African ancestors.
The music is proof: the people
who brought you here were more,
always more than slaves. Your friendly notes: a gaggle of drunken bells,
songbirds, small stars the lonely bring to light the coming dark.
If a heartful song could unspill
all the blood lost in this world
it would be yours-your plucky laugh, your aria, so often misunderstood.
How many centuries have you sprung
into music?—all the years a single melody mapped in your grin.
Who would dare mock your wise and supple ways?
Only those who do not know
that they do not know the truth for which you play:
five fingers, five strings, five secrets
forever told
but never given away.
