The 3:23

It ain’t the Phoebe Snow
and
it ain’t the magic carpet made of steel
and
it ain’t a longing from Folsom Prison.

Ain’t nothin’ romantic about
this son-of-a-bitch.

This ante-diluvium,
ante meridiem,
three-twenty-three.

With an air horn
that pierces ear drums,
as a wake-up call,
a disturber of the peace
and a dream stealer.

This mile long behemoth
grumbles through town
with sounds to
warn the wary
and wake the weary.

In direct line of sound
and Doppler sound waves
that let you know:

I am comin’,
I am here,
and I will
leave you with a long good-bye.

TP.

Fade to White

The surf mimics the clouds,
the ever shifting foam
forming, reforming, deforming,

as clouds above
seem to glide along
on waves of wind
onto unseen breakers,
creating shapes, forms
and imaginative images,

as a sonata of surf sounds
whose tone and timbre
seem tide-timed,

while the winds aloft
orchestrate these
humid hulks
in mute movements,

I add sound
to this silent scenario,
the sounds of the surf,
with crescendos and rhythm,

the clouds pay me no mind,
like “herding cats,”

as I strive for a symbiosis
of sound and movement,

the sun sets,
I am left,
undone.

TP.