blackbird online journal spring 2002 vol.1 no. 1



On a Day When Rocks Can Think

When the clouds invented music,
They warned us
It was going to be this way,
But we refused to
Listen. That boulder
Over there, for example, wept
When it heard
Its first harpsichord
On a winter night. Also,

There was that evening
In a small Virginia town,
Populated with banjos
And the beat-up violins everyone
Referred to as fiddles.
It was rustic, and
Momentous, I suppose,
When that very same rock
Wept again, as Elvis

Sang something laced with
That treacherous teenage
Cologne. The rock continued
Having emotional upheavals,
Wondering why
It was the only thing
On the planet that cared,
Truly cared, about any of this:
The devastation of all

The good notes; the pattern
Of destruction everywhere.
There was nothing left
Worth listening to, after
All these years, and the rock
Had heard it all. The clouds
That had thrown down
That first note for the world
To dance to, smiled,

As this simple stone, this
Unfeeling piece of hard ground,
Lay there weeping
That no one, in their right mind
Or otherwise, appreciated
Tailor-made suits, or
Close shaves, or the idea
Of pain placed next to
The blackness of an old piano.  

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