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