Global Voices Radio Spoken Word Lab American Sentences
American Sentences
Organic Poetry
At Robin Holcomb

At Robin Holcomb




Brown moth frolics in stage light

above stained glass, moths are tiny birds

in scattered gestures wearing earth tones.

Playing my spine with broken nails

keeping trombone out of it for now.

Sudden as blue plastic or piano benches

upholstered moments of calm. A good man.

May the black beetles find the moonlit

sidewalk kisses remember the celloís bow

splayed into the cracks of bitter wallpaper

peeling sweet sound from a toy xylophone.







Who leaves in mid-concert?

Who arches horsehair bows over the celloís

thigh bruise, slapping a cello like that

then veer away from ordinary gardens and

common beard through which he powers a gold

trombone. Lick the plaid curtain with

your eyes as she bites off loose strands

of bow, she is a rifle that plays music,

shooting sky, echoing Monkís ghost.Its

blue leaves a gloss on everything

even rats.Music to beckon avatars.

Music to lean against or sleep next

to, and before it all ends

†† Iíll blow in your ear again.

written w/ Meredith A. Sedlachek


9:01 & 9:37A


Good Shepherd Center Chapel

@ Robin Holcomb concert

w/ Peggy Lee and Steve Moore