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a poem by Jason Ryberg (1 of 2)
CHET BAKER BEGINS TO BLEED
There's grinning ghost-poets
riding fancy saddles
down abandoned hotel hallways,
a red rooster
wrestling a baby king snake,
a cat caught in the hen house
and a shiftless, no-good drifter
cooling in the jailhouse.
Theres a broken-down truck
afloat on an ocean of golden wheat
beneath a swirling coal-black sky.
Theres a foolish old rowboat
sulking in the bed of a creek
that's long since run dry
(still waiting after all these years
for the creek to reappear).
And here's the part
where one of our own dearly departed
is carried down an inner-city street
on a swollen river of laughter and tears,
trumpets, tambourines and slide trombones,
farther and farther out, towards some still (as yet)
greater unknown.
And what about that mad Rasputin of a character
down in his subterranean lair,
sculpting zodiac animals from spirits
of fire and air,
and way up there, just above the city skyline,
goes the Man With All The Answers
wafting away to some faraway land, most likely,
on a deus ex machina of wanderlust
and gull's wings,
leaving us a world of mysteries
to remain unanswered
forever more.
But before anyone can catch their breath, even,
comes the big scene where the dirty linoleum floor
of the latest sordid dream
suddenly drops out from beneath it all
like an amusement park ride
gone awry,
and we tumble and fall,
tumble and fall,
tumble and fall,
like starfish,
like rag dolls,
like satellites spiraling
out of their orbits
off into the sleepy, wakening yawn
of a shimmering nebula
like a giant rose
a million years wide
and the color of peach ice cream.
Somewhere, a pay phone
by the side of a desert highway
begins to ring.
Somewhere a tattoo of Chet Baker
begins to bleed.
riding fancy saddles
down abandoned hotel hallways,
wrestling a baby king snake,
and a shiftless, no-good drifter
cooling in the jailhouse.
afloat on an ocean of golden wheat
beneath a swirling coal-black sky.
sulking in the bed of a creek
that's long since run dry
(still waiting after all these years
for the creek to reappear).
where one of our own dearly departed
is carried down an inner-city street
on a swollen river of laughter and tears,
trumpets, tambourines and slide trombones,
farther and farther out, towards some still (as yet)
greater unknown.
down in his subterranean lair,
sculpting zodiac animals from spirits
of fire and air,
goes the Man With All The Answers
wafting away to some faraway land, most likely,
on a deus ex machina of wanderlust
and gull's wings,
to remain unanswered
forever more.
comes the big scene where the dirty linoleum floor
of the latest sordid dream
suddenly drops out from beneath it all
like an amusement park ride
gone awry,
tumble and fall,
tumble and fall,
like rag dolls,
like satellites spiraling
out of their orbits
of a shimmering nebula
a million years wide
and the color of peach ice cream.
by the side of a desert highway
begins to ring.
Somewhere a tattoo of Chet Baker
begins to bleed.