Crinkled step, autumn falls,
under my feet my shadow,
to the south sky, river and its fluid.
The leaves are the people
I stepped on in my pursuit.
Still don't know what made me do it.
And Josie buys
another round after all this he tries
to put it on a tab he calls life.
Josie, bit by fleas,
nose red, dribbling,
still dressed in last week's dungarees.
And I stand outside
sorting smoke from desire,
the dead leaves, the people, and the river.
Overflow your banks soon.
It happens every other June.
Josie gets a notion
and he up and calls it quits.
Summer will find a way to fall
people whom I never call
as they unravel as leaves in my shadow.
Composer and multi-instrumentalist Robert Stillman takes a magnifying glass to American self-image on his latest avant-garde work. Bandcamp New & Notable Jan 25, 2022