The “is” of him has crossed into the “was”. The image with a shadow is now cloaked in “was”. I knew his “is” very well, never with thought of his becoming a “was”. Shoes and shirts and a favorite hat lay in a box; the hope of a “was” not to visit; those were the … More FROM “IS” TO “WAS”
We are in the business of judging strangers with wry smiles and hats dipped low. We lean in to evaluate, though not close, watching their direction with curiosity and fear, while avoiding their gaze so as not to be invited into their unstable space. We imagine their aroma. Where they slept and what their looking … More STRANGERS
It’s a legend of moving, heels of travelers, train soot or bus grease. There’s a road for everyone; a language of sound without hurrying. Slapping screen doors, caffeine and gas, diesel smoke and fast down gears; dirty fingers with a chance to go. Clock watchers without soul have no song; it’s a fail … More GREASE & CAFFEINE
Nothing good happens after 2am. Freight trains rattle the roads, shaking plates and stirring dogs. Streetlights blink a hazy yellow. Everything appears closed. Neon signs sleep. Doors are locked against the wrong keys. A black cat stares at a garbage can shadow. City buses have yielded themselves to the station. Thieves and robbers speak in … More STEAK & EGGS
Up from the rafters of the underfloor, the old man forces the his sax to whisper out the birth of favored notes. His fingers strain and shoulders ache but he plays from his mind the songs he knows, remembering the clubs and dancers, the circling smoke and passionate eyes absorbing the music. In his … More THE UNDERFLOOR
Songs of dreams jump the river, heavy with nights and clouded rains. Scuffed shoes on the beach and shirt tails shake the wind. The Nickel Bar calls the faithful by aroma, even the sour and stale from the evening before. Johnny comes home, proud to be standing. The hope of many buried in suitcases … More THE NEXT CURVE
He had a tattoo on his forearm of a face, faded through the years, even he can’t remember who it is. A cat rubs against his leg. He sips casually on a root beer. His boots dull from travel. Hair black as a night cave, pushed back flat like a helmet shined with grease. … More LESTER
Dreams grow on billboards, some are painted on the sides of barns. Out of Chicago on 66, winds at my back, passing brick churches, racing freight trains to St. Louis, where a river heads south as I push past growing fields where families work for peanuts while harvesting corn as I move onto Oklahoma, … More ROUTE 66
Cloud cover and rainy days challenge my wings. I enjoy the change, the rumbling of intention, flashes of heavenly combat releasing mist before it pours. Rain is the old of the skies washing everything new. Like a baby waking, crying over everything, making day come to them. Rain brings up a delirium of … More COME ON RAIN
There was a hot rain streaming to heaven onto cobblestone streets. Misty warm baked sun breezes blow steady like the sax man, blanketing the city from work worn docks up to the statue in Jackson Square. New Orleans offers dreams beneath magnolias and rattling frontons. Broken souls sleep off the city on street cars … More CRESCENT CITY
Roger Singer 