She was a flame flickering in the doorway He walked through like a bruise bracing for impact staying low singing to strangers underneath the heat rising she sang a thousand Namastes so they stayed in the ceramic pink bathtub glistening under sneezing faces that night was a smokey embrace in a pinhole kaleidoscopic kind of way that night she was so many bricks of herself that night so many virgin versions of shy bowing and out of the chasm cackles Everyone packed in like match sticks lit by the joy of singing and laughing our stomachs were sink holes with no drains that night overflowing with wet hair and sore strum fingers we made bath tubs and bowls and sinks of each other that night that night, that night, that night Our dreams fit into our pockets the same way her flames claimed the doorway But on this night, I wonder if you are looking out the window at yesterdays sun, flying into the moon of tomorrow, landing on front porches with wooden posts, holding up, nailed in, one stringed guitars. I imagine you just jumping from one front porch to another front porch with a sweet southern drawl. Drinking whiskey with Ancestors of Rhythm on swinging wooden chairs that creak while you croon. And there are others there too, little boys in flannel shirts and overalls who really know how to groove and kick the dust up in the moonlight. You play the string You play the house You play the foundation and the stars above us from that night have shifted across vistas across earth baths oceans into your moaning on this night, at midnight You play through pockets and doorways. #TheDirtyThirty #Day2
Posted on: Wed, 02 Apr 2014 11:53:41 +0000