Sunday, July 6, 2014

Sunday Morning listening to Pandora (a poem I think)

it's another blues variation
pouring like smog and whiskey from
charitable eyes that look
and remember nothing but the sadness
I've been lighting candles and chanting
old time prayers of the forgotten
soldiers and slaves and wailers
the backbone of a dream state
the rhythm of macabre knife dancers
and the historical revisionists
the papers never saw it
but I swear I heard her crying
I swear I held her ,trembling, broken hands in mine
She sang so sweetly as I recall
breaking the cradle that was nursing her pain
she will return to the ether and dust
I will place a stone in the space where
they stole her face
and buried her story
I've tattooed her name on my tongue
slit my wrists to tell her story
it's another variation of blue
a parallax in perception
a station only received it you adjust the ears
and tilt
you will never meet this woman
you will never meet me
we've been
for your misdirection
blue upon blue and fade away.

©David (Buddha 309) Hargarten 2014

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