Strummer (A Poem)

Chamomile sugar honey
creating deep ponds
in my cranium

the English season
takes teacups
in clouded fingers
and wait for the
heat whistle
to
blow

my once clogged ears
now
tilt a whirl
and children
scream with delight
as my heart
races
and goes for
the flower bound ribbon
at the end of
the journey

Protein Shakes
My Ribcage Rolls
My Bones Rattle
(and the ghost of Big Joe Turner
rolls like a tootsie
in his southern grave)

My pet bee
sits like a parrot on
my shoulder
I'm sitting here
without the
slightest trace of merit

But the walls
melt gold
and the hardwood floors
becomes
turf
of haikus
with a slight
mixture
of
green tea

and
Monterey Pop Festival
posters
instantly
replaces my
plain white walls
with massive groovy
colors
and the words
Otis Redding
...Shouts....
out loud
and encourages me
to grab
my brown guitar
and play
a few notes
of a tepid tune
I wrote when
I was all of
six months
old
(Strangely..I remember it...
chord by simple chord)

now naked
with the six string
as my
Adam's leaf
I concentrate
on my ever evolving fingers
and I strum on
just for the sake of
..Simply strumming…

(Strumming...what a beautiful word)

but now
after the
hours have passed
I gather myself
into
the ceramic bath
and simply
-sigh-
drifting in and out
soaking among
warm cloud droppings

my guitar laying
horizontal
on top the sink
I close my eyes
and let
it all
relax me

until I am
empty
like the teacups
and
my constantly
draining cranium

This is a night
that
I can now
call

complete

and with that

ended