Poem: Red Eye

Red Eye

Nomads have no home ...
only places seen,
the ground they're standing on
and some place
on the other side of
midnight.

I was once a stowaway
on a caravan I called family,
born on a dairy farm
outside of Houston,
thrown into the trunk
of an old Studebaker
headed west,
but not before picking up
the scent of fresh shrimp
in Corpus Christi
and the taste of countless
Concorde grape filled
communion cups
in a string of mildew soaked
Texas Southern Baptist churches.

Just like any ol' sailor
weary of too much time between
here and there,
I have many stories to tell
on an idle day,
about those first seventeen years,
but the short story is a
frantic tale
of five states and thirty moves
that ended when I jumped out of
the caravan called family
on the banks of the Columbia River
with a dual-trigger bass trombone
in my hand.

The plan was simple:
take the ninety bucks from
graduation
and buy a one-way ticket to Boston
to become a jazz musician.

It was a red eye out of Seattle --
My first flight,
lifting above the lights
and mountains
and nomads
without faces
and homes
and purpose,

on the other side of midnight.

Stowaway In Boston
josjr (2012 1001)