Untitled Spontaneous Prose(Impromptu)

Your life is a river carving through arid cloth
With smooth wet curves
And sad blue eyes

Old beard made ten dollars
Outside The Scotia Center today
Happier men never had
So few teeth

Copper shines
At the bottom of
A paper cup
Trinkets from
Fat lipped strangers
That sort of jingle
Beneath the noise of
The louder crowded
Everyday
Orchestra
Which has many chords
And no harmony

Old beard whistles and
Smiles and sings
Such songs were only sweeter when
Your lady was singing
While you listened happily beneath
The kitchen window

Clocks on the church's tower
Spin like mad drunkards
With no regard
For the time
The harbor smells like shit
And sunday
Somebody is cooking bacon
All the while you're wondering where your lady lay
Tonight

Old beard remembers his daughter
Crying while
His lady threw her things in a bag
And made it out alive

What tortured hearts
We have born
Slaughtered and mourned
Without thought or reason

Oh, she's in the mountains now
With Khashir and Macki 
The buddha taught her Tao
Without speaking

Her body moves and her dress is loose
As leaves on a birch tree
She danced with
Lotus on her breath

Or rather she is dancing
Just not for you

I wonder what ever happened to
Old beard's old lady
So I ask
And he tells me she's off dancing
So is his baby
You can see them anytime
Down at the Corner Stone
They're always waiting
Around 

He says he see's 'em often
And he kind of cry's without crying
The way older men do

Ah, life is a river
Carving through arid cloth
With smooth wet curves and
Sad blue eyes