X.
(Olonzac, Brasserie des Sports)
This poem is a song,
A dance,
Stone in the wall,
Church and theatre;
It is a picture with color, wind
and Rhythm,
A wild forest,
A film depicting the world as it falls into place
Crystallizing.

This poem stands like a rock in the river of time which bathes it.

Events line up
Since I first started sipping pastisse
Today at the Brasserie des Sports in Olonzac,
Or years before in the jazz catacombs of Paris,
Or in Fleetwood’s Jazz Club in Baltimore twenty years ago.

What is this ‘ago’?
What is this ‘now’?
What is this line?

How do words line up so that ‘road’
Speaks to all roads, but to none more than the very heart of this road?

“Celtic Radio” is an expression which captures this endless moving on.
The eternal winding-on!
Here we find ourselves in the eternal flashing.
Spinning like the kitten’s tail chasing.

Somewhere in this space
This time
This matter
We need to find a home, some anchor
But where, o where!

When I was a child I spoke like a child
“Life is so easy to see!”

From my window I search endlessly
For that child and the world he once knew.
Always growing, rising, falling.
Who is this child and where has he gone?

The light in the café has greater significance
Because we have been here before.
Is it “I”?
or should I say “he was here before”?
"In the sacred time" [or "in those crazy days" I leave you to choose]

Brasserie des Sports
With wind tearing seeds like feathers
From the Sycamore trees
Along Rue de la Poste.
Looking across the street
To tables the merry drinkers have left vacant.