It’s only a man’s life in words fitted to a page, yet his book
magnifies like no telescope the scared being made fierce, and
whose heart pours out through a brass horn, through a microphone
and through Time’s cavern to swirl within a cold, coloured world.
Mirror-like, his horn put hurt on the airwaves, loud and clear. It
spoke to heart and ear of a familiar kind of blue; And by this piper
many recalled scars thought buried too deep to ever turn up again,
whether by vicious wind or rake or backhoe.
Those chords — not scores of words laid down in curvy, black mono-type —
Those cords lifted his listeners to oneness, long note after long note;
But perhaps he lost himself in our midst and forgot how to feel us feeling him; Or
he inwardly feared our love was miniscule, and him no Mozart at his craft —
for he sought a different high, and brought lovers low by it.
A face was easily a slippery mess because of that horn of his,
which he played till his lips scarred, same as his heart. He
then put it down — his key to life — put it down to remain alone,
as if he could ever be with all that feeling seeking to swirl.
His old recordings remind me to feel, minutes at a time, and
from hidden places, to respond like a native to all that rings true;
But he’s too gone to read this, a corporeal god now muted
like his horn was from time to time.