CONVERSATION ON ROUTE 23 NORTH, NOVEMBER 1987
He leans on me like a rusted bicycle,
Tires flat against the weathered south wall
Of a lonesome, abandoned barn
Slumps into the rear seat of his old Ford
Station wagon, no longer capable of riding
Shotgun in the only car he has ever known
Images reflected in the rear view mirror
Are not always larger than they may appear
A small figure, gaunt…thin…weak
The bluff has lost its long battle against
A sea that is unrelenting and unforgiving
There is no apprentice program
No manual with appendix, numbered illustrations
That touches on the passage of responsibility
I did not recognize the need for silence
My feeble attempt to shoot the breeze
Was more for my own benefit than it was for his
I understand that now
I spoke of realty, the acres we had our eyes on
Now, his eyes were tired and trapped
Locked in that hollow gaze of regret
There, in a whisper, close to tears
I strain to listen
There has been a change of plans
VINYL
A strange sensation overwhelmed
Me on this almost perfect day
It could be confused as an obnoxious odor
To those who would never understand
But there it was…again
A time long forgotten but
Most certainly missed Daydream
Believer Hello
Goodbye Wheels of Fire
SELLING WATER BY THE RIVER
Lobbyists dressed in full
Regalia
their gold stars shine
Through the cigar smoke haze
That oozes from heads that bicker
With balderdash and ballyhoo
Ramped up rhetoric
Destined to stoke the flames
Red on this grand barn fire
As men of good fortune
Find themselves labeled somewhere
Between patriots and heretics
By carnival barkers who continue
Selling water by the river
SO WHAT
These quibblers
Common practice…never in unison
Two cents cant buy you three
Perfect fourths in harmony
Head full of intuition…imagination…theory
Detractors that never leave lasting
Impressions
So What
R J BLUES
12 bar…in A minor…of course
Band is loose…I am tight
Slow shuffle…drums hardly noticeable
Bass floating effortlessly…smooth as a placid lake
Note by note…line by line
Hands move…without thought…without deliberation
With passion
The thought returns once again
The concept that has always fascinated me
Was any of it true
Stories…tales…rumors…fables
Did the devil take his due
Was it really worth the cost
On the other hand…times have changed
Perhaps I could work out some type of
Fair exchange
HANDS OF WES
Tone, the one truth
Find the voice within and
Release, release
There is no love lost for
The technical aspect
The mantra is eternal
Less is more
Rosewood bares the
Burden of this passion
Still, I thirst with desire for
The hands of Wes
