Where Music Turns Sour
Posted: Sun Feb 09, 2020 3:39 pm
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Where Music Turns Sour
I was excited to see big horn sheep.
They abide together
conscious of where the others stand.
None wants to be mayor.
Laying in a ditch one night I felt the same way
as if stars and I were equal spirals.
With time, the moon can melt off stench
from the lit part of town,
where music turns sour into a passable thread of hope,
where flesh is what – I can’t say.
She asks better days?
All I can hear is Betty Davis–
“I’d like ta kiss ya, but I just washed ma hair.”
Where Music Turns Sour
I was excited to see big horn sheep.
They abide together
conscious of where the others stand.
None wants to be mayor.
Laying in a ditch one night I felt the same way
as if stars and I were equal spirals.
With time, the moon can melt off stench
from the lit part of town,
where music turns sour into a passable thread of hope,
where flesh is what – I can’t say.
She asks better days?
All I can hear is Betty Davis–
“I’d like ta kiss ya, but I just washed ma hair.”