im goin where
people write songs
by fallin off the sides of skyscrapers
hands out and
lettin the wind whistle on
tips of their fingers
where they hear
a hammond organ humming gospel hymns
and pedal point prayers
and Pollocks appear
on the gray street where they hit.
and i think most songs are about jesus.
im goin where
people watch earthquakes from the inside out
sippin more soda than they should
and danglin twizzlers
spinnin like twisters
where there is sugar inside every storm.
im goin where
they keep the imagination in a toolbox
with hope and a tape measure and screwdriver
and every doodle they every doodled in the fifth grade.
tell phillip to tell allen they can keep their own head
theyll need em
and you have your own.
where people build buildings on a page
and the homeless draw themselves houses
with a couple crayons on a napkin
and it comes to be
and you can draw anything at all that
you can at least sorta outline
so long as you have the common sense
to color outside the lines
where the gold
in your family crest
really shines.
even castles fit on paper.
im goin where
people aren’t people but
guitar strings tuned by God.
nickel-wound
pulled taut
they know that
soon as they think they may snap
they resonate.
there is sound.
they sing under stress.
im goin where
every church is a barn
you vaguely know from your childhood
and coming back
is a sacrament.
it was your granpa’s.
said it’s red with his own blood and sweat.
us old timers dont build with our head, we use our hands.
got calluses on his fingers on rusty strings
on a bent guitar in the feed room
feeding us an old sermon.
there’s only one he knows.
singing about jesus in his heart.
and in the silo
all his kids and kids’ kids play
leaping down into the hay
and tossing up the straw
and they call that “baptism”
as long as you laugh loud enough.
im goin where
people catch fire but don’t burn up.
they catch fire and hold it
and sometimes toss it around
and call each other flamethrowers.
where St. Augustine goes knocking
door to door
with an old baseball mit
asking anyone, anyone at all for a game of catch
when he thinks his heart’s all burnt out.
he still smokes cant kick the habit
but not in the way you think,
tends a flame inside his ribs
and blows out the fumes in the shape of a cross.
if youre not up for catch
or forgot your mit or matches
or youd rather not play with fire,
pour poor Augustine some coffee.
he says one cup is fine.
it’s freezing outside
he just wants to feel warm.
im goin where
blind lemon jefferson aint so blind.
he learned to see by strumming
and uses his guitar pick like a third eye.
he sings about jesus too
and goes by deacon bates.
im goin where
a barbed-wire fence is not a fence
its the tail of a great dragon
that towers over us all
filling her lungs with air
ready to sigh out
and the people run for their lives
while Augustine waits
arms out eyes open ready
he just wants to feel warm.
im going where
they steal the steering wheels from cars
and take them
everywhere so they feel
like theyre going somewhere always
like theyre moving
even when theyre not.
in fact theyre happy standin
in place
most hours of the day.
and in the night they dance.
come mornin im good as gone.
im goin home.
