moving furniture
rustling up the dust. sneezing within
a confined space where things shift
and inch
like tetris pieces on a small grid.
i think if i had a hardwood floor,
and my furniture were mostly on wheels,
it would be more conducive to
the things i use and move around
when i need to.
mom brought me incense from Chicago.
nag champa doesn’t smell of the blues,
but it masks the cat box’s constant cat litter smell
should’ve waited before i bought three expensive candles
whose glass will only be recycled to make another expensive
thing.
i used to fill pages and pages,
and now i’m only compelled to write on occasions.
at least they are usually compellingly positive occasions,
as opposed to the pages spawned from terrible moods
and dwellings.
i’ve been thinking about blues
about working class blues
and privileged class blues
and poor man blues
and woman blues
and what shades i’ve known
and haven’t known
and i go back to being thankful.
but i still like to sing those blues melodies.
like to let my voice stretch out melancholy
like to waver and wallow and lilt and float
down a stream of wordy consciousness
connecting mood with experience,
looping woe with gratitude,
singing the blues
and feeling better for the release.
there are people who can’t afford therapy
and they find ways to let it out
or suffer and let bitterness sour their souls.
someone asked me the other night why more people
can’t unite through music.
it’s because it’s been bred out of people.
beaten out.
bled out.
stomped out.
squeezed out.
they’ve lost that rhythm,
and they’ve got to invite it back in.
but many of them settle for
various other distractions,
the kinds that trick the senses,
artificially sweet,
and ephemeral.
shallow and experimental.
stagnant rather than developmental.
no one ever licked the red off my lollipop.
back to the drop.
observations and documentation,
regarding and recording,
thinking and transforming electrons
into these words.
May 3, 2010
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