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Poem: The Busker

I shake out
my pockets for a
currency, forgotten

until this moment,
when the mist
settles on chimneys

and the white sky
trickles down
to the tops of

street lamps,
and I can no longer
breathe without

puffing steam
in a spiral,
delight, liquid

with the violence
of living.  Please,
another song.
oooooooooooooooooooo





















I haven’t forgotten about y’all, I’ve just been working almost exclusively on a super-secret project that I’ll share with you soon. I’ve been so wrapped up in it that I feel like there’s nothing in my head except stardust. You know that feeling? No? Well, it must be a personal problem, but nothing that a good day of accounting won’t fix.

The other day I went to Safeway and saw the most amazing thing. There was a man outside the store playing an accordion. I always think of accordions as being wheezy and brassy, but this was rich and nostalgic. Everyone kept throwing money at him and I was grinning like an idiot. The poem doesn’t do it justice.

I hope that your own accordion player this week; that for a moment you forget the violence and hurt in the world and lost in a beautiful absurdity.
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