The Narrative Image

End of the day at Arlington House I saw a YouTube video of Joshua Bell playing a Stradivarius at a Washington D.C. Metro stop, and I remember how almost nobody passing by had the inclination to stop and listen. So when I was ejected from Union Station on the crest of a wave of Friday morning commuters and heard the soaring tones of a violin echoing off the granite stones of the loggia, I made a point to drop some money in the anonymous street musican's violin case and take time to listen...just in case. Now I don't know if the violin being used was worth 3.5 million dollars or not, but for a while, the music coming from it was lonely and poignant and hopeful as it drifted out from the cool shadows into the dawning day. Eventually, the music changed in character, demonstrating (to my uneducated ear) the worst excesses of Jr. High drum solos, and so I reluctantly walked on, fearful that the Gustafson's, my paragons of culture, would be disappointed in my artistic ...

Wind racing over the waters Careening around canyon corners Ice cold waves leap with delight ...Idiot kayaker, not so much High desert mountains Try on a flimsy spring dress of sheer green Teasing again Blooming flowers witness  The grass being whipped Trembles in the shredding wind Curious clouds Sniff alien contrails As they scurry by  I don't think flowers Often experience existential dread But you never know  Before the gale Flickering like bright yellow Daylight fireflies  In a symphony of windblown grass There's no telling which baton Belongs to the conductor There's those flowers again Acting all happy And shit Shy plants looking back and away All the time nodding consent to nothing in particular  Surveying the dead and wounded At the end of the grass battle In memory of those Who dared to show their faces to the sun Hey flowers! Suck it! ...