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Thunder Sandwich #23 |
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Eric C. Harrison |
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MUSICAL MIDWIVES self-prescribed headphones drown sickness spewing poison out of surrounding mouths spreading curses, stress contagion word plague flying like bats disturbed in flickering torchlight dancing on walls shutting the world out in transformation scream to whisper, calm from clamorous musical midwives cutting the cord with notes and melody harmonizing dream-drift to secluded space between, and in, two ears embracing song's concrete elimination of petty fucking shit WOODEN TIME MACHINE that old junk drawer is a time machine burying the past beneath yellowed papers restaurant menus, receipts and dead batteries bills so outdated their debt now seems minor a full book of matches from the old Jerry Jingle's (no longer grilling, long since torn down) Saint Paulie girl coaster and another marked Schlitz telling tales of old taste when the poison was beer brass subway tokens from a trip to New York before the stigma of terror took two towers down bring quick recollection of child's perception of a long boring trip feeling trapped in a car painted boat by the falls on a souvenir magnet "Maid of The Mist" from Niagara vacation a time in my life I'd come of age and raised glass to toast for the first time with parents key-rings with keys that no longer have locks some shining like silver where others lack luster remind me of secrets behind seldom scathed tumblers of hackneyed old padlocks on crates in the attic an old photo of friends and I, shot out of focus in a phase of rebellion and moot self expression showing out-of-style haircuts, outdated clothing the Kinks shirt I won tossing darts at the fair the second drawer down holds a pen and blank paper a barely marked calendar - dated next year this time capsule space will hold memories to be born to new days bringing unborn nostalgia EBENEZER OAKMAN'S HOUSE from the chap Parallel Enigmas w/Carter Monroe rising and falling Atlantic waters running past the point of pines through Rumney marsh becoming a river twisting, living brackish water mallards, wood ducks among high reeds cormorant, fishing, breaks the surface heron, still, by shore snags creek chub gulls drop clams on rocks and feast railroad bridges quiet and dead sulfur lingers invisible, mist air pockets rise as chorus of pops through bottomless mud of low tide bed strong and stern bearing chipped, gray paint Ebenezer Oakman's house overlooking waving dance of cat o' nines and bittersweet when mother nature hits these shores she hits them hard leaves weather scars but this cord wainers home reared in 1806 stands stubborn and proud refusing to budge AMONG MONSTERS sometimes when I look outside at the comforting lamp lit streets shaded enough to drown out colors of silent cars & sleeping houses alienation's face greets me on a pane of glass made opaque by the grayscale world beyond there are so many things I miss among the frightful busy sidewalks crowded with thieves & charlatans selling fools gold, paste pearls diseased whores & shitty drugs to crazy, dangerous lunatic wolves wearing slick sheepskin & smile-traps biting unwary stargazers passing through it in the morning when people settling into their days are too busy to fuck anyone over I still find myself hiding behind music & hood pulled up over my head to shade all but a scowl casting daggers in a ten foot radius with hope that none will approach at night paths are chosen carefully tracked out under maximum light seeking route among those headed home where they seek sleep, warmth, food, the arms & embrace of loved ones among these tired monsters I, just waking and vulnerable, stare into a book, preoccupied paranoid to the point that the pages are nothing but letters in alphabet soup |