It comes in waves, from the days 
when a body could sing
about Arles and sunflowers 
without station breaks.

Listen to that oddball
paint chords of cobalt in the night, 
the candles on his frayed hat bright 
as lemons, wax dripping
into his bad haircut.

Could he lend more volume
to evening’s pulsing sky?
Yes.
He traded all for those polyphonic stars.

It was in the south of France
where he plied his colors deep into the night. 
The neighbors said he painted too loudly, 
the crackpot redhead in the yellow house.

He lived in a blue room, sat in bloodshot cafés. 
where he swilled absinthe, sang notes
of citron and lilac against the blackness.

There were days when he went off
the air, his head full of technical difficulties. 
Some say he had a gospel show once, though
no one remembers the call letters. Others say no, 
that’s crazy. There were no radios or waves.

And that music you’re hearing? 
All in your head.