what is it, sunk
possessed by Gershwinjaundiced sick we are playing notes of others, vacant now of the passion that stirred them. but all have always been vacant, only the few who choose not to be fix themselves into the phantom that possesses future players intent on voicing your composition.

the asphalt widens
it is nice to roll
along the char.

futile now? rubber
skin, prod

The insomniac
clouds dull the grasses
I've seen the Yellow Mountain ridges
to Gershwin preludes beside
my desk lamp. The pipe

is full of ash, soot
and remains. Prod
my supine
hand, it is cold.