Mythology of Dad's younger weird male friend, late 1990s, Deep South Winter, cozy rooms, free and easy alcohol, timeless record of Light and Sound, mutilated reality, hefty burger, caramelized memories, eerily fresh and eternally real.
When I think of how he sings or think of how he plays and moves,
I feel I see him cry happy tears of a sad color, but they cannot be seen or felt.
Bilingual, mistaken tears flow out of his skin, flesh, hair, sweater, instruments and voice,
and his-head-sized tear-clouds float past him to his longest spacey future,
full of ever larger instruments and ever louder,
even more beautiful hurtful vacuous voices.
No comments:
Post a Comment