I’ve been grappling with feelings of restlessness lately, with a sense that I need to experiment more, to branch out in some new directions creatively. I believe Seven Road marks the beginning of one such novel direction. I knew as soon as I finished what is now the first part of this poem that it wasn’t truly finished. I immediately felt very close to the story and sensed it needed to go on. So, I have written more. A lot more. Below is Part II. In addition, if you are re-reading Part I, you may notice some small revisions.
View the full text of this poem here.
II. but all this is metaphor as you know, a crystalline dream, a spider vision, a man of silk and ire and the guise of a prophet spun on the steps of a magic carpet with gilded seams and gemstones like lilies a ruby haze a white witch’s spell i clung to the edges like a beggar i wanted to hold his hand but the trees were flying and his hair whipped wild like a bird a crinkle at the top of the necktie up up up up i sensed he was born a wild man and just might die a hero life’s a feeling, he says, that’s all it sits in the grooves of the fingers, in the space between lovers, in the kisses plucked like a daisy on the lips life’s a current and we’re the ash, and there is no wisdom unless you make it unless you get down and digging and grab the bottom of the earth with your hands—that’s the jazz in it— everything else, he says (wagging his finger all fiery eyed), is castles in the sand i was starting to think he might just up and disappear in a puff of smoke like some kind of wily wizard or a magic dragon so i figured i’d change my soundtrack, maybe grab myself a beer Eric Clapton or the Traveling Wilburys by the looks of it, we were heading straight for the end of the line now, i would never encourage anyone to do this, but at that moment i leapt up and let the wind take me grabbed onto his shoulders as he took off his shades and i let that carpet fly out from under my ankles and tangoed with the soul of the afternoon like the freest bird you’d ever seen dank air lifting me cockeyed by the boots over all the gypsies on Seven Road as the man took off his sport coat and lit himself a cigar, eyes glittering like gunmetal in the sun you have to walk with it, now, dipping back down to the rucksacks, you gotta live the things that matter and hold the things worth loving or they’re all gonna leave you empty-handed his voice was a long, slow cup of coffee and i suspected it had been a lifetime since he’d last been kissed
*Original artwork by T. Blake