Charlie deigned
to change his name...
"Or stooped!" thinks he guiltily,
being over-analytic in the extreme.
The old started seeming a hanging-on,
a worm-riddled, worn idea
that had somewhat duped him
for a couple still-productive years.
Sought he something to convey
the howl below his stewed silence,
the wind-shriek blown through
his bone-house ribs over
an unapologetic blood-drum's beat.
After a too-demanding
eve of detailed work,
the dirt-path home
(Spring being sprung)
become a heady boulevard
of jasmine and woodsmoke,
it settled upon him.
(more so then he who chose)
From somewhere unfound beyond
the incantatory rythyms
of his own beleaugred breathing,
the piteous plaint of his
road-broke, work-swole feet,
his titillated, negroid nose,
something sharp but not a shard
spoke to his moon-maddened mind-
an itch and a catch undone,
and ache and a note unwound,
throbbing in his Godson throat.
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