4/23/07

He had a method
like vice-grips.
He had a process
like a mile high stack of dirty mugs.
He was a fretboard,
and every note was based on tension.
He was the breeze
through the bar-room door,
he was the hope hollering
in a vacuum.

As suns sank low
over the tops of trees
in towns like these,
there came the persuasion
of dreamers and derelict prophets,
carried on the strongest(strangest?) of terrestrial breezes.

Among a populace straying
over sidewalks
and each other.

Among a populace stranded
in a paradaigm
fat with the myth of paradise.

The cause of chaos and
the cost of consumption
are always,
two different things.

He was the shoe-shine on the glass,
and class distinction
among the depraved.
He was brave,

Home-grown and whole hearted.
He was rotten to the core.