By Aleksey Calvin

Crystal shards funnel crimson glow

Through a flower chandelier

Their light ebbs, guarded, grows

And above us, worldless seekers,

Hearts frozen in "awkward culture" of unreachable

Dark stalks hang down

Where ceiling is touched

And, by these stalks, sprawls

With some forgotten Pierrot's

Nervous fingers

The secret shadow of the sun

 

Here in the barroom

In the dimness

Where beautiful girls

Stiffly dance

Where Greg Ashley

Sings tonight...

He's still moving on,

From Texas to Oakland,

Over silent planes,

Across vastness speaks

His nasal croon,

Softly and slowly,

So that everyone hears

In awe.

To his impossible, invincible loneliness he sings,

To the darkness in the train window...

To a generation sucked dry,

He sings fantastic words,

Droopy eyed,

Sings with another generation

Of drinkers,

Drinking for a spell alive

Their lonely brilliant minds.

Fingers crawl across

Guitar strings of yearning hearts...

Quick,

Fingers reach out, bold with touch,

Spiriting the warmth

Of the barroom wall. . .

 

And the voice

Echoes, controlled, stray...

It won't let us fall,

While the face, still kid-like

Eyes now closed in a gypsy daydream,

Borne

Past the highway sign 77 or 51

No time to say "Hi!"

No time left but to get some living done

Chasing the shadows

Sitting stooped, singing tall

With a wry, sad, knowing smile

A melancholy voice

Singing to the happy blind

From some, neither full nor hollow,

Glass of wine

From home

 

"This is the end of the world"

This is the end of the world?

This is it?.. This?

Drink one just one more drink.

What more can a man need?

Just one more drink.

Drink.

And toss your derby hat to the wind!

 

The world ends

And here comes summer.

- 2015