True Story-Franco

True Story - Franco The light blue flickering rhythm Of the neighbor's big console t.v. Is basking on the ceiling Of another insomniac spree And outside sleep's open window Between the drops of rain History is writing a recipe book For every earthly pain Oh to clean up the clutter of echoes Coming in and out of focus Words spoken Like locusts Sing and sing In my head And thing is They often seem In my memory's long dream To be superfluous to The true story of what was Cause Real is real regardless Of what you try to say Or say away Real is real relentless While words distract and dismay Words that change their tune Though the story remains the same Words that fill me quickly And then are slow to drain Dialogues that dither down reminiscent Of the way it likes to rain Every screen A smoke screen Oh to dream Just for a moment The picture Outside the frame Then in a flash The light blue horizon Spanning a sudden black Is sucked into the vanishing point And quiet rushes back To search for the downbeat In a tabla symphony To search in the darkness For someone who looks like me (though I'm not really who I said I was Or who I thought I'd be) Just a collection of recollections Conversations consisting Of the kind of marks we make When we're trying to get a pen to work again A lifetime of them! Cough, cough, ahem I say to me Now here listening I say to the locusts That sing and sing to me sitting Now here on the front porch swing of my eyes: I hereby amend Whatever I've ever said With this sigh