By Julie Flanders
You thrive in the chords of distraction
That move your life
Down the tracks
And lead you
Back
Through your history
To the music of yourself
There are so many books
On the shelf
You can hardly count
The ways
To measure jazz
How do you measure music?
Music is what is left
When we let go
Of the need to explain it
How do you measure pain?
You see the old railroad crossing
Again
And the wires
Strung across your town
To hold things together
On some level
Where we all fall down
Where none of us can see
Where we all meet
Or fall apart
As the world beats itself
Alive
With its own heart
Is art a life or life an art?
A sudden, dead possum
Cuts through your awareness
Like a dull knife
That will break the skin of the day
Till you cry
An animal music
And let reality in
Where does the four-chord want to go next
Where does the melody travel
On the breath
What is the musical motive
The loco-
Motive
In your train of thought
You are catching your breath
From the death
Of the white possum
Who lies in sacrifice
At your feet
Was his death victorious
Or was it a defeat
Can the life of a possum
Ever be
Complete
For a moment
Like a man
Who stumbles through a cemetery
Into the funeral of a stranger
You are a sudden friend
Witnessing
The mortal and eternal changes
Of an ending
That connects you
To him
How many conversations
Move across the wires above you
How many people
Admire
And love you
You remember yourself
As a young boy
On the same track
You breathe deep
Knowing
You can never go back
You’re awake for a moment
At the crossroads
Where you live
With your music still
Inside you
And a fervent wish to give
The world your song
Photo by Robert Dickow
October Process 