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


Polished Jinx


If I could leave

This charm

Sitting alone

On a sidewalk


To be picked up

By an opportunist

I would feel guilty

With happiness.

The gem

I dug for, long ago

With help by

Ardent and Fervent,

My two younger brothers,


The polished jinx

Deep and burning

Within my purse.

Where it knocks

Against my leg

As I walk

I ask you to please

Pick up that rock

You see alone

On the curb.

Take all of my words

And leave me

Simple, unadorned

Capable of making

Eye contact

Without preconception

On the streets

Of the city

That has wilted me.