Godammit, it may be I have reached the part
where I need Bukowski to map the ordinary
in long       meandering      lines destined for
Nick Drake on the radio even though
the sun is shining on West Broadway exiting past the World Buffet parking lot gray
You can’t mistake the bells that ring inside that chord,
its full texture, and open.
The coffee medicinal to teach us     we can take the bitter in
The sliced almonds’ flavored with white petals against a blue sky
their sharp edges breaking the cool, thin milk.
And Willie Nelson, so help me god, wavering on his tightrope
Tipping tipping almost into the chasm between the worlds.
He has no reason not to say it anymore.