Beguine

January 1, 2008

What the shit,
let’s get it and cut some rug, Gate!
I want music and words,
not bellyshirted teens
who can’t sing a lick,
airbrushed Lolitas extruded
from machines;
What the fuck kind of spinner is this
that don’t got no Begin the Beguine?
I want growling groaning saxes
moaning moon songs;
sounds that soar
from open sewers and sores;
the sighs of spurned suitors nursing wounds,
the riffs and trills of suicidal curses;
I wanna hear the saliva and grit
from the bottom of a bottle of Night Train;
I want the blues of a mug
chugged down to the foam;
of the last damn penny
in the pocket;
the sound of talkin’ and knockin down trash
on the long walk home

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

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zone

February 5, 2007

Clutching my pass;
the forbidden corridor stretches;
it’s quiet at dead center, at midday;
the building is clean; each day it gleams
in another buffed layer of wax; yet
a dull green din darkens
the cavernous shaft
sun rays somehow sneak into
the vastness and bounce among
the tiled hard surfaces;
lockers pass in dull repetition
like backgrounds in a cheap cartoon;
a thousand blank slates sit in
cubbyhole portals off to the sides;
uniform buzzes hermetically sealed
in the honeycomb hives hidden
from the forbidden corridor;
Still, no sign of life in the middle
of the hall; flapping flared cuffs
and unbroken Chuck Taylors slapping
and squeaking on a shimmering
hard sea; wavy lights dance
in the floor’s imperfections;
Stop, and they stop, and all is still
vast and quiet, still slightly dark
at midday;
Move, and they move again;
wavy undulating light glazes
shine in shadow ripples in all directions;
The hall goes on to its ends; up steps
the repetition begins again; passages unending
fan away again, in the same dull luster;
a place of sameness gleams its clean
surface smiles where roll calls
of the nameless are repeated; and passages
of sameness are named to the faceless
again and again;
soon a drone will grow and this quiet zone
will fill with noise,
and the place will be quiet again
and the buffing will come, when
dirt is snuffed out; and sounds become
a sterile muffle;
And it’s quiet and dark in the hall,
still.

————-

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


sin

February 5, 2007

the slimy moss-covered walls of my insides
are coated and caked in musty orange sin,
and this germy shit-filled Ganges water
will paint my outsides shiny,
awash in a halo glow in lazy red sunlight
cast through the crumbling temples on shore,
and I will be renewed, if I believe,
by this blessed cesspool eddy,
relieved as I turn to face the pilgrims,
sheathed in a drying film

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


stance

February 4, 2007

You take your stance
as if you’re dancing
and all’s your soundtrack

You always leave the floor
when notes are bittersweet

————-

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


truth

February 4, 2007

truth is the passenger pigeon of words,
extinct, discolored in a museum glass,

there’s as many truths as lives,
as many truths as liars

as many books of truth
as killers

—————

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


Sentinel

February 3, 2007

In crunchy leaves
curled like claws,
a dried white stone
guards weeds
and bones;
proclaiming
eternal laws
in names
etched away by rain
and drying shafts
of browning
grass and weeds.

A scent of sour
pumpkin seeds
and smoke from afar
wafts in and recedes
on a wind.
The dower of decay
leaves a lingering
last hint
of formaldehyde
and flowers.

Amid the seasons
of the grass
before it masses
into sands,
the sentinel
stands and waits
as immortal memories
pass

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


Warm Valley

February 2, 2007

The smooth Warm Valley mood Duke lays down
is ground
awaiting a traveler;
the sun-dappled valley soundscape needs balance
when its sights fill the mind
of the passerby;
With gravel underfoot Ben steps solo
through the scene; adding some rain,
some smells, some pain,
Hinting at must and remains unseen
under haystacks,
leaving mud tracks,
Matching birdcalls in refrain,
filling the valley with soul cries,
sights breathed so low
their echoes reverberate in farm ruts
in a wide open meadow;
sunlight casts shades and shadows,
and clouds cast a more rueful note
on the floor;
the solo traveler leaves the scene
on a blue note of hope;
the main theme returns, same tune,
but transformed,
slightly mournful,
the warm valley scene still dappled in light
is a sight more lonely than before.

———-

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling