The Last True Enchanter

Henry Harewood Robinson
Henry Harewood Robinson

On nights like these,

I’m a-sounding like the sublime

Notes that fly.

The inner voices to the outer ear

One with all energies around me

Including the audience’s reaction

To my flight, we are together

Inside our own jet stream

Then, silence. The smell

Of abandoned alcohol and

A stale lover’s quarrel swell

I get a free beer and no money

Been doing these spells for decades

That’s a hell of a lot of beer

No money

So now, I gotta steal my licks to eat

From magicians I love

But, as I scrape the pot for burnt offerings

I begin to hate my thievery

It digs a hole in my gut…as I utter

The bluest of tones comprised of lonely flatted fifths

Bent thirds that shiver through my angry spine

Shaping me into a junkie for….

The vibration of my instrument

Soothing me

Into a mellow love caress of all five elements


I find myself wishin’

Ohh, I wish I could hate long enough

To make me not care, but nah

I love like a bitch vampire

My teeth so delicate upon all necks.

I play just the right thing for you,

Yeah you, pretty, pretty babes

I know your kind of sweetness,

when you say from the outside

“From our perspective”

Certainly, I could carve the woodwork

Into beautiful statues

Take the ultimate money toke, inhale the spell

And play the set straight

With my talent of materialization  

tucked under my arm———-

You don’t understand what biting does

‘Cause now, I gotta face that glows

Leaking out soul

Can’t you see it wearing my clothes?


Let me tell you, yes, yes yes

I’m darker than the universe

The visible invisible, which causes

All the lovers to come at me.

Then, when I touch ‘em

I’m the witch, the voodoo

The Brujeria, the divine conjuring

But, my sparks hit ground

By the sweat of the day

Dulled by deluded lovers

With Milky Ways in their thought patterns

Blocking their sight and empathy

And they see too, that I’m frail-like,

Weak, a crybaby, sob story,

With Kansas breath on my lips

A tornado alley, head beaten

Into soft putty. Dried then cracked

Into a dustbowl queen that

Clicks red sparkly shoes, together

Over and over and over

Until I have to sell them

To a resale vintage shop

Full of plastic record players

Cassette tapes, and boxes of unwanted sheet music

Containing images of the tunes I willfully mar


In this shop called “I’ll Get You My Little Pretty”

With tarnished plated flutes

The mandolin no one ever played

And the bent trombone

Resides the history of my history

Just like you,

but not,

you see

You’re playin’—I  play

Therein lies the difference

And off my lovers go

To the dumping ground

While you keep on pretending

Much better than I

Making me want to apologize for being real

‘Cause it’s better to fake magic

than to actually use it

You don’t have to worry

About what to do

with the return deposit


No, no don’t get me wrong

I’ve got lovers

The fallen never let me go

‘Cause I have one hand on the ledge

And it’s a big hand

And if I am planning on getting kissed

I better love the fallen, so….

I pick the big beauties

With baggage that will

Book another plane just to follow

Them to wherever they land.

They don’t seem to care

How I play, Why I play, How I recite recipes

Just as long as I can sleep

Through the day and prey upon the night

A thief of sound

Playing for those who walk

Proud-like, on all twos, daylight trippers….who

Heckle me until I’ve become

Just who they wish I was–mortal

Just who you couldn’t believe I was

Cause, I was never simply a belief


That depth of me you wonder about


I’m a lover’s theme stuck in the throat

Of a time when hands held lyre and flute

Finger bone upon string

Lips upon mouthpiece

Human tones hung upon air

With all its imperfections cast


Single Use Cup


The art that surrounds me are images of images already in place

I am the one who is expected to make a decision

through them, these paintings, figurines….for they are

Copied onto permanent canvas, drawn into form, molded into judgement

Named and named again, endless titles

Serving anger and compassion, attack and defense, pride and prejudice

Stirring the swirling palette of mash ups, in the land of dances

Making me dance, full of fervor, entwined in embedded memories

For my head is a twirling history of black and white atomic bombs

John’s bloody head full of conspiracy theories and Jacqueline’s pink hat

Reagan’s red blushed cheeks and a dusty New York.

This art is frozen into me, stars stuck in my stomach, aching

I vomit up all the dried acrylics produced by the painters.

And there is enough there to make me want to love it all like a pro

For I must believe I am a lover

Even as I dry heave belief in amounts no cloud could contain

Sitting with my head near the toilet

The sound of my empty throat echoes off porcelain

Hoping the sunrise will sober me up

Yet, I will vote for you, my love. Take me.

I drink you while you’re hot, when the paint is still wet in your hands

To soothe my stomach, then toss

The single use cup where your past memories

Never decompose

The Close Distance


In hot summer

With night sky exposed

We sit with backs to the planet

Searching for satellites.

Those stars that move

Ploughing the heavens

In strict straight lines……..and then

Once found, followed, observed, concluded in

A celebration of our simple control

Of a sky so close

That it shapes our visions

Even when the atmosphere

Stirs up dirt or is measured

Carefully for precipitation.

We hold hands for the first time

And it feels like they fit together

Our eyes darting from sky to eyes

Different colors, different light,

To each star, a name, a distance

In this moment of movement

The ground is warmer

Cotton blend flat upon turf

Don’t kiss me yet


Photo by Godesslife
Photo by Godesslife

Climbing down the stairs,

through the dead living room

Out the missing front door.

how simple the world is,

To leave you behind

peculiar, too easy, resigned world,

Yet irate, torn between silence and wilderness

Both shone brightly. Both were masked.

Outdoors, the sky was hidden in gray,

mundane as if waiting for movement.

The sun was there, peeking through rumbling clouds,

attempting to scold me for the escape

If only I could see it move across the sky,

I could reason with it.

Tell it about the way I walk

If only I could see you move towards me

I could reason with you

Tell you about the way I am

I wondered if this was when time stood still.

Was I missing the world move?

Did I misinterpret your signs, your speech patterns?

I looked keenly at the clouds,

Trying to see what was behind them.

The sun must have meaning today

Beyond any other day past or coming

As I looked down, the grass

appeared as a carpet of swirling chaos, fallen. 

but it quickly vanished. 

Primary Voice


Inside the blue melody, exists

The longing that exudes from us.

Proves, we are all dynamics

Ingrained in buzzed-out bodies.

With arms flying alive

Reaching for sound

Feet uncontrollable, legs alien

Outside ourselves, always, as we

Feel the shake, when

We cry—with the dance in our limbs

And the rhythm is reddened

Beyond our hunger and bite

Even among the simplest listen.

Waves pushed outward

Past our personal magnetic shields

Blooming around us in green

harmonic overtone tone rows

Passed beyond our ability

To move, received by

Antennae of mind and soul

Which is just, just, just

A receiver of the search of flight

Free of gravity and anchored femur

Seeking other statics, scales, and modes.

For the noise of light, which

Has been playing its colors

Upon our very, very, very origins.

And upon pronouncement of our silence

Will paint forever