Now on Vinyl
A quiet Tuesday alone, Coltrane
blowing in my headphones,
“Resolution,”

trying to remember something
I once heard another musician say
about the fidelity of recording:

how the master pressing
passes its peak
with the very first listen,
as the needle grinds away
the lacquer and with it nuance,
separation, as if something so fine
can only suffer ordinary time
and fade, and start to die
the moment it is realized.

But the initial play after lathing,
in its precision and clarity,
is everything—or
as close as it can be—
each notch and groove
corresponding
to a different sound in the room,
and there is no shorthand
for the background noise,
nor even for the rush of air
through a window down the hall.

When the cosmos strikes
the tympanum,
all of life
resounds
at once
like a single tick
of a single clock,

and therein the shading,
the crosshatch of light and shadow,
the length of the pencil

along the curve of her neck today
and again tomorrow,

and in that precision,
in that science of limitless detail,
in that rhythm and swerve,
the luck of being human,

the good fortune

of breath and spittle as it hits
the cold metal of the bell.

Vagabond Shoes
I am aware of the irony
as I enter New York
on a rainy spring day
to lose myself
in the quiet
of my mind,

to see myself casually,
always moving,
framed in glass—
a hasty portrait
in passing,

indifference on the faces
of all the people
I have not hurt,

here for the sidewalk glance,
the mercy of a city
where every building
is someday a husk, leveled
for another layer of the past
to rise from the streets
and be forgotten in turn.

I am aware of the irony
of crossing a too-narrow bridge,

once a passage on the wide water,
once a pace more suited to nature,
once the floodtide pull of the river
upon a floating part of the soul,

now a chute into canyons
raised for absolution,
forgiveness
in the law of averages,
loss leaders, shareholders,
efficiency…scrubbed clean

in the towering infernos
of Charles Ponzi and
Three-Card Monty.

Down below
we are a harried
school of fish

swimming together for safety, and
in anonymity, in the impunity
of mass decision, sparing
what’s left of ourselves,

regrets that cannot matter
for too much longer anyway,
and certainly not after we die
our lonely deaths in the gutter.

Here is not home so here is free,
as long as the money holds out,
as long as I am through
with dignity (I am).

Here I can’t be found
since here I can’t be seen.

I am aware of the irony,
that I enter New York
a refugee
from my own dream.

What a Ride!
Be kind to capital.

Its hard decisions
make us flexible and
give our city its spring.

The higher the rise
the deeper the sway,

and many choose
not to land at all
since the drop
is so exhilarating.

Many just hang
from their rope
and swing all day,

ignoring the subtle
fraying, strand
by strand,

until they fall
to the ground
holding two ends
in their hands.

But it’s all
very rational
and a small
price to pay

for the sport,
and our proud
boyish American
sense of play.

So be kind to capital.