coffee can (short for the longer version)

chadwick

out in the woods under a coffee can is where it's at (longer title)

listening to stars
out on the wind
with rust on the mill
I own this
maybe not a glimpse afterall
I could reach out
and touch a candle-filled sky
and I will
that's all up there
alligning ourselves in grids
how we are webbed

I would like to write something that makese me feel good
that makes the world feel better
but the truth is told
bones ache
the jail cells down the road
are empty for the first time to my recollections

a jail that is empty
it means the village is sober
straight as an arrow
but why the lost eyes
countryside within
within something
all within a coffee can
these are the notes
these are their recordings
the recorded data weather checks
memory skills tests
bird sanctuary rebuilding advisory manuals
tree planting projects
homemade candle classes
at the asssembly hall
at faiths baptist church
there are a lot of catholics

some evenings
i'd see a traveler
making his way down the sidewalk

I was seeing the old man going through life
with this holy shoes
toes would hang out of one side
held together string
firm old broken in guitar
that he carried with him flung over shoulder
said his guitar's name was Robin
then he'd disappear
I wouldn't see him for months
and then he would come back here
he would tell of the coal fields and the mines
of Pennsylvania
and bustling rail cars he rode

he always had pork fat and beans
his dog Spike somehow
found his way through the snow
through the life of leaves
leaving clocks and arriving watch pieces
bellowing alarm clocks
candles flicker in the old man's house
where a dusty record player
still spins a tune...sort of

he always says, that the old man's records are playing or something

ballsack scrotum face head fingers, the third, thank you
double junior the shit man stick
he himself is 107.