Awoke this morning and thought of James Brown. Thirty years have passed since I heard his biggest hit. Found the old 33 rpm in my collection and put it on. It came straight at me like a tornado: OWWWW, I FEEL GOOD, dada, dada-ditty-dum. My rusty soul motor sputtered, then took off. My legs made some moves. My arms flapped. My hips squiggled. I did a slick side-slide and jigged down the back steps. I detached my complaining and compromising head, and lobbed it over my neighbor’s fence. Sarah was hanging her laundry at the time. “Get that thing out of here,” she said. OWWWW, my head said as my body snaked through the back hedge and freewheeled down the alley while Sarah—arms outstretched—chased me and called, “Come back, Dan. You forgot your head.”

trapped in an ice cave
the devout philosopher
dies from frost bite

—From New Shoes, Gilmore’s collection-in-progress of haibun, scheduled for release later this spring by KYSO Flash Press

Bio: Dan Gilmore