Contemporary Poetry
1 min
post rush hour riff – I-495, Washington D.C.
Brian Gilmore
Brian Gilmore
post rush hour riff – I-495, Washington D.C. was accepted as part of the MSU Library Short Edition call for work on the theme of "Home," in coordination with the MSU Broad Art Museum's exhibit Where We Dwell. Brian Gilmore is a poet, writer, and columnist with the Progressive Media Project. He is the author of three collections of poetry, elvis presley is alive and well and living in harlem, Jungle Nights and Soda Fountain Rags: Poem for Duke Ellington, and We Didn’t Know Any Gangsters. His poems and writings are widely published and have appeared in the Progressive, The Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, The Sugar House Review, and Jubilat.
in between ringing piano notes
the silent fading blue blue hum
the pause of an impatient painter not
sure of what to reveal, on a canvas of cream
a puzzle perhaps, an unknown
number of pieces scattered like rice
on the kitchen floor. where do i start
again? what is this new moment i have
snatched out the sky like a baseball in
flight? what will/can i make of this out
here in the boondocks without alleys &
all the other trappings of that life lived
without care? second time
around like shalamar back in
the day. jazz players call it — the alternate
take. & this is not at all a do-over. there
are never regrets in and around this
blessed beltway. i know these blank pages.
the stories always come. today i stare at
boxes & ask — which one will
i slice open first?
the silent fading blue blue hum
the pause of an impatient painter not
sure of what to reveal, on a canvas of cream
a puzzle perhaps, an unknown
number of pieces scattered like rice
on the kitchen floor. where do i start
again? what is this new moment i have
snatched out the sky like a baseball in
flight? what will/can i make of this out
here in the boondocks without alleys &
all the other trappings of that life lived
without care? second time
around like shalamar back in
the day. jazz players call it — the alternate
take. & this is not at all a do-over. there
are never regrets in and around this
blessed beltway. i know these blank pages.
the stories always come. today i stare at
boxes & ask — which one will
i slice open first?
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