Any Day Now, Any Day Now
April 19, 2012
My grandmother taught voice until
mine began to change,
and when it finally settled in
among new keys, new octaves in my range,
she was dead. But by then, too
Bob Dylan was teaching me that you could sing
any old which-a-way, sing and play
and write stuff you could sing and play.
You don’t have to sing well to sing out!
My grandmother would have said, “con fuoco!”—with fire.
Usually I stay with the Army Corps of Engineers,
or state places from CCC days
cheaper for us old folk, boomer full-time campers.
I build a nightly fire where singing embers
enter my skull, dispensing memory or desire
depending on the spirits I’ve drunk, the soul’s current funk.
No fire here in New Orleans, though, an urban camp,
on the bus line to Canal Street, Rampart, Faubourg Treme,
a wooden wall away from the freight yard,
the back lot of a union hall; some nights,
drag races up and down Chef Menteur Highway.
The sirens [...]
Read more
April 19, 2012
My grandmother taught voice until
mine began to change,
and when it finally settled in
among new keys, new octaves in my range,
she was dead. But by then, too
Bob Dylan was teaching me that you could sing
any old which-a-way, sing and play
and write stuff you could sing and play.
You don’t have to sing well to sing out!
My grandmother would have said, “con fuoco!”—with fire.
Usually I stay with the Army Corps of Engineers,
or state places from CCC days
cheaper for us old folk, boomer full-time campers.
I build a nightly fire where singing embers
enter my skull, dispensing memory or desire
depending on the spirits I’ve drunk, the soul’s current funk.
No fire here in New Orleans, though, an urban camp,
on the bus line to Canal Street, Rampart, Faubourg Treme,
a wooden wall away from the freight yard,
the back lot of a union hall; some nights,
drag races up and down Chef Menteur Highway.
The sirens [...]