A Poem by A. g. Synclair
The mad ones write poems about death,
sparrows, lost youth,
girls. About eternal good
and the blackened eye
of a yellow café door.
She is the pale beauty of rice paper
you will write about her
because you love her
because she is a girl
because you should always write what you know.
You are a mad one
but you have nothing to say about death
so you trace the line of her back
your hand visible through her skin
she is a ghost
she is your air
your sparrow.
A Poem by A.g. Synclair
The Jazz station is playing Chet Baker
something recorded near the end of his life
he sounded like chocolate
if chocolate
was ravaged by heroin
and time.
In Europe, Jazz is revered
crowds jam darkened doorways
and tiny tables lit by unscented candles
at clubs like Ronnie Scott’s
or The Vortex
which could also be a metaphor for all of this.
The shoulder cracks under the weight
I stop for a moment to consider the red sky
and why they jump from buildings
Baker, McCorkle….
they wore their scars
softly, I think
like rain.
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