February 15, 2014

New Age Busker - Vintage Ephemily Poetry

When I was maybe 18, my family and I took a short trip out to Vail, Colorado during summer break.  Our family had a vacation condo there for many years, and I have a glut of fond memories of times spent in the mountains.  As we were walking around the familiar village, there was a younger man set up with an amplifier and a keyboard, playing his music to the passing tourists.  I went through a phase where I was really into new agey music.  Ray Lynch was perhaps one of the ones I latched on to the hardest.  This young man performing in the open air had a sound that transfixed me.  So, as my parents shopped, I sat and people watched while this long since-forgotten man performed.  This is what came of my observations that afternoon.


it wants to rain today
to swallow all sounds in one thunderous gulp

so i wander with no place to go
an old tourist in a glitz town
where college boys let their hair hang down
and the college girls cut their shirts to the chase
in front of a salt lick monument
of a skier who flies (and has this frozen ego look)
there sits a sound
            who’s fingers dance the butterfly call
            and the caterpillar people passing by;
            some rest
            some stare
            and spin their cocoons of silky music bars
            for becoming
            to answer
            as butterflies

the voice of this song is reedy and old
a storyteller with no need of words, pictures, or props
a puppet at the fingers
at the touch of the keyboard

            the voice between voyages
            seems flat and impatient
            as if only idiots would need explanation

and the butterfly people
false monarchs of their own lives
sit and listen

the windows through the webbing
            (which they have woven for themselves)
are to them eyes, ears, hearts
the rest is numb



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