Genghis Cohen
I could write a novel here
Under the pink lights
Serenaded by an old and knowing voice
And fed by the angels
The fragrance of ashes and stone
Quenched by the foliage
My brown hands tracing lines
Across the contours of a curtain
And the benches sway
Patrons in the position of sublimation
She holds a note
And the chapters scroll
Across the shadows of her face
I am nobody yet in the darkness
Near the front of an auditorium
Scribing close to a candle I smell
The heat dripping off of the wax
Anonymity in this space
My titles and tutelage
Entrenched in walls of Ivy
Hidden in towns with two names
And what is a lyric but harmony with the vibrations of time?
Platinum inklings
An unshaven beard
The flashes of documentation
Eyes turned upward
Empty glasses waiting to be replenished
The smiles frozen
Only the strings can speak
It is all cliché
Man in a bar with a pen
A man on stage
He begs his guitar to bear witness
The pilgrims
A baseball game, white noise
The city in spring
A full evening
The breeze of trepidation
A fertile moon
Beautiful people
The arrogance of youth
The power of the semiotic
Love is a red, red thing
But we must make our declarations quickly
The travelers are searching for reasons and signs |
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