HARMONICS

Stop talking
or they’ll hold you to it.
You been getting videoed far more than you heard it, the whir of a camera obscura.

You become I need this and I deserve it.
And what they would have saved your life for
be ye cursed.
Fit only for the road.

The work you do now, for free, no income.
Tis a busk, unknown,
side the Internet Highway.

Tumbleweeds be both
battering and beguiling.
Feel them soft if they stop at your foot, let you
pat their knotted hair
unaware the ghost that frames you.

All times.

Best beware ...
new wind might blow your hat into the street lest first
you placed your coins in, earned.

Play harmonica.

Ceasing the constant need to chatter
for something long and lone.

Playing the aloe-crumpled blues
ameliorates the acacia of what’s happened -
the exile to a desert of flowers.

Play it long,
fresh, at the salted chap of your lips.

Play that thing.
Be sated.

Yea, the rest of you may
Leave.

For I
long to hear that old brass band and can start again,

small,

with instruments
cupped
in the hand.