The Daily Art Source

Chet Baker’s Trumpet

Is dandled.
Is dandified.
Makes the rounds.
Mums the word.
Is curtains.
Is in the red.
Keeps steady.
Swept the West Coast.
Stems the tide for a while
Quietly scandalous.
Makes pretty shaky.
Note for note misses you.
Is sandpaper hatching.
Empties itself.
Is immune to this.
Is almost.
Picks up where it left off
Leaving off.
Is the everything else.
Has no exit strategy.
Is a stealth bomber.
Is a permanent lodger.
Applauds itself.
Appals itself.
Is amazingly entrancing.
‘Tender this.’
Fountains while it’s raining.
Is sometimes a guitar
Plucking at nothing, full stop.
Check. Baker.
Is a crossover flyover.
Is all of Tokyo and all of 1987
Happening that night.
Ramps up the tension.    
Exits to exist.
Exists to exit.
Is hard won.
Stays at home with the war
In flickering pictures.
Is seamless.
Fits like a summer glove at least
While the light is on.

Cal Wenby

Letter to Scott Walker

Interest in bathroom mirrors. Pressing on.

Anchor, right.

to crawl across a floor

There’s two ways

There’s two floors to throw the towel in.

Part of me?



Roll on vacuum ankle. Fill the loop the lip

Sink larceny.

You’ve stacked your Blake cards and your

car keys.

You’re easy on the eye and slightly shady.

It’s filling.

There’s something two-foot down that’s not right. A grass syringe. An ear loper.

A point of interest.

Your bracelet rankles.

The world sensed makes shift. Reverse the words again, lifting

Out there people mill around. You catch on.

What can you know through Jean Vigo or Sergio Leone?

At night: interest best expressed, made to count. I’ve tangles and then some.

The Mojave was always eyeballing

Thoughts on horseback

Scratch that

Adapt the hand-held.

It’s simple, windmilling. All the days run together threading. Flapping arms at the Atlantic


Above bored, below ground, sleeping soundly.