Monday, October 16, 2006


His is a life in fragments
sailed off the edge
of an unaccountably
flattened world
cascaded into
æther incognita
where conditions
for proto-life
are unbalanced
after the fact;
all of the perfect
precursor chemicals
degraded now to
imperfect proportions
and misfired sparks
igniting only
hallucinatory truths
and all-too-real lies
left over from
the lucid times.

But on the odd good day
he can see far enough
through the haze
over the end of the world
into that other life
to still play a guitar
like liquid love.


Anonymous said...

This reminds me of someone I knew, who could still play sometimes, as the rest of his mind was degrading into nothingness. He had Alzheimers. It is such a cruel disease. You have represented it well - or something like it - if that was your intention. A beautiful piece.

The Chair said...

I thought it was about Keith Richards.

coyote said...

Hi, C; yes; it's actually about schizophrenia, so close. Maybe the chair is too...

M. Shahin said...

"and misfired sparks"

Doesn't everyone have some of those that were meant to be masterpieces. I really liked this poem, and the end is beautiful. Thanks for sharing.

coyote said...

Thank you.