My wool coat buttoned up
and a remote in my left hand
I sit next to the tripod
with a Nikon camera on top.

The camera in full manual
waits for the push of a button
and I hope the settings are right
to record my flashless memories.

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Juggling ideas for something new
As old feelings for my father
Slide into the noise of inspiration
And with one word, silence hits.

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On the table lays a photograph
long forgotten and faded.

He leans the seat back
to rest his eyes and remembers
the music played and images flashed
on that hot summer night.

On the table next to the photograph
lays those words in a letter.

What was that song playing when…
after that third drink,
he looked her way and she smiled
so he headed her way and asked,
“Would you like to dance?”

On the floor like a MTV music video
they danced to Prince’s 1999.

Later after a few more drinks
the smell of her neck
the taste of her lips on his
the touch of her face
drives him into her arms,
her warmth surrounds him.

On the table an Alarm Clock sounds,
reality kills the music video star.

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I hear music mocking me
And across the street
I see Douglas Fairbanks playing in the mist
between the twilight and dawn.

The palm trees sway
As Douglas waves his sword
And a blue outline brightens
North of Hollywood.

Douglas’ ghostly band enters Stage 15
As the twilight gives way to the daylight
And with a chill up my spine
I hear the word, “Action!”

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Twenty-five days
have passed since the end.
I have fallen away
and find myself lost in the grass.
The sun burns my mind.

Since that day
I long for you,
but you go on reaching higher.
I feel myself growing weak
for I cannot touch you.

Before that day
you wanted darling me,
but I’ve changed, you said.
I tried to say I’d grown, not changed,
but my weight held you down.

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Robins sing
of playful work,
and black birds parade
contrasting duos.

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The city is waking and the birds lead
as I cross the street to the coffee house.

At five thirty AM the lock clicks
and the brew pulls me to the counter.

With cup in hand I lay a notebook
on the round table to collect my words.

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The wind flirts
with triangle white
and the waitress’ dress
as Spanish music plays.

Cars arouse the window
with a lively flow
as the waitress
brings my lunch.

Fabric stirs, ice glistens,
the captain’s eye bubble —
I see their brown luster
and wish I could sail.

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Music playing and images of last night rush by
shifting speed with the temperature of my forehead.

Once in a while something slips in between
the words, images, and music exploding within my brain.

An old friend comes to me from the radio
taking me back to school and the buddies that introduced us.

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A young face,
the glare of lights,
and the smell of bottle brush
move with the wind
along the highway.

He is but a drop
in the Milky Way
buried in the cup of his hands
to chase away their nudity.

What has he solved
as he blows that prayer?

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