Morning:

Silence and creaking hallway floor where the wood is warped.

Catching keys off the table rippled with age and water spills, barely disturbing the still, gold mask and string of gold beads, discarded late and quickly, flashes of yesternight.

Quiet.

A crow-call cold, white winter light just past dawn growing in the windows.

Someone else’s thumb smudged into a blow of ashes
ashes
ashes
as
.       h    e
.                  s .  .   .

A look in the eyes, blue into green:

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

The drag of his fingerprint ridges across her forehead skin cells: contact, instant,

Gone. But for the trace of thundersky and betrayal and burnt hallelujahs,
carbon ember betweenashestheashespores.

Night:

“Hail, Thirty Three,”

Wailed Shovels & Rope.

Bringing an ample arm down with two drumsticks in one fist onto the tambourine. Flinging a grizzly blonde 80’s cut without loosening the red rosette, fastened above a wide-smile cheek. Touring for three weeks now, with “a badass band out of New Orleans,”

So we yelled, hurray for the riff raff.

That’s what Heaven will be like.

The cloud of witnesses, spectators, drinkers, girls who look like men:
amped and unplugged all at the same time.

Close and Real and Loud enough to feel rattling full up into your rib cage.

As fragrant as bodies in cotton shirts, shiny with blue light on the gold clasp of the necklace on the girl in front of you; clear as the “M” on her inside-out shirt tag.

Startling as the black marks between dark eyes across the grungy gaggle, impressed just an hour ago by the same digit darkened by the first silent procession of the morning: Chelsea? (Didn’t know she’d be here.)

Familiar as the Guinness-colored finish worn down to raw wood on either side of six strings, under finger oils and friction.

New as music, music, music heard for the first time, exciting as the discovery of note dropped into fuller, saucier note.

Intimate as the sweat off his forehead sliding down the cleavage of her red dress when they lean in to share the microphone. Kissing or singing, you couldn’t tell,

But for the words.

Hail rock and roll, thirty three, King of the Dust.

Catch it quick; tilt each his warming bottle, up for one last dark-bitter mouthful,

Hang on, on onto the final sliding
War
.        p
.     i
. n
.  g
.     riiiiinging
sWamPy note:

“I’ll see you suuuoown.”

You shall return.

When the homeless Israeli punk gives beauty
for these.

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