Message To Love

Jimi Hendrix is curled
over his white guitar,
but I'm looking over
his shoulder at the
shadows on a
telephone pole, to
see what the light
was like back then.

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Fingers Do the Walking

Somewhere in the
"New Country", I
smelled how stale
it had become,
dust in the archive.
When I realized,
I rifled through
the stack for a second
whiff, concluding
the sensation
began around
Loretta Lynn,
Ain't I Woman
Enough. Apparently
not. I keep
inhaling, but
the air isn't
any more
clear. I'm going
to step outside
for a year or two.

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