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
The stage is ablaze with cigarette smoke. Brass finger keys howl from the sax man tapping gold from Gabriel’s horn. Alley cats sing the nine lives to back room shadows where Tom Waits breaks the words from jumbled unwashed dreams and Ginsberg works the beast from his pen while Kerouac reaches for starry nights over … More RELEASING WORDS
I got me a guitar. The life of my hands jumps the strings, forcing words out my mouth with a sound of thunder popping, so remember, this ain’t no opera, where neon lights crackle with sizzle and busted dreams lay scattered in alley suitcases, cracked open like eggs snapping on a griddle of grease, spattering … More DRINKING RAIN
There’s a bucket of dreams hanging off my pillow with fingers of thoughts twisting my inner gears into faces from yesterday or childhood where summers warmth was pure with mornings lifting off the aroma of dew soaked canvas and blossoming lilacs, jumping into morning before the birds and the dust of breezes. I’m pulling … More A SLEEP VEIL
The walls move in on him, pressing out the vintage of his flavor, forcing a banquet of jazz into drunken lazy air where lipstick releases secrets and gin holds no lies as the music burns through the smoke of last night while morning slaps the creases of a sun between chairs and over faded … More SLOW MOVING
He breathed out the blues with the release of a raspy washboard, capturing the days full of sweat under a full sun or nights hanging moss or in backrooms where spilled whiskey drenches sawdust floors. He had a birth of songs flash spitting from hot greasy pans of his kingdom high thoughts, peppered with … More BLUES MAN
He would see with his hands, map readers of sorts. His fingers were pencils discovering the curves of a wall or the shape of a face; the continuance of good or evil. His feet sensed the earth between dirt and roads, solid or weak, as he chose the way from the dark caverns of … More BLIND
I got out the big car, the flashy one where your absorbed into the soul of your seat. We turn on the black roads with no names past road signs peppered with bullet holes and other signs pointing each way to towns and places somewhere to go. The moon plasters a gray canvas like … More THE BIG CAR
Sequoia cactus stand like soldiers at attention, raising daggers to heaven as we stream by, counting the stiff bristled coat hangers. We lean back and let the dry desert uncomb our hair. The radio pushes out uptown songs. Broken neon lights at abandoned bars languish under a blanket of dust, covering everything, including the heat. … More UNCOMBED HAIR
Roger Singer 