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Michael McLain |
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MOVEMENT IN STILL LIFE, TRACK 3 unknowing, i queued the music this was the music the music she danced to- when she danced for me dim lights the drugs in my system her body her scent breathing her in feeling her warm skin on mine feeling the beats drive my pulse every nerve awake flooded with serotonin every break in the beat makes my heart swell as if i was there again in the dim lights with the drugs and the girl scratching her body on the floor like a housecat i can smell the oils i can feel her small breasts on my cheeks cold rings through the nipples the silver peals of a bell on my face reaching for her lithe body staying just out of reach desire eating me all that is gone but the songs bring it back BEATFREAKS long nights driving the dirt roads with my copilot searching for the elusive party talking big like we were men we wanted to escape the hood we knew it was killing us a little bit every night the cops the fights the drugs the poverty those nights we escaped sweating and grinning in the cab of a jeep just a couple of beatfreaks bobbing to the music JJ'S POEM you arms were familiar; your face an old friend (but i couldn't tell you why) a voice of butter and sugar a laugh like the smooth clink of ice cubes in a glass of dark rum countless nights in countless cities (some were warmer than others) seven countries twenty four years two broken hearts never met anyone quite like you a soldier slept in your arms and he did not dream of fire FOUR IN THE MORNING AT A CERTAIN FRANCHISE DINER denny's is a microcosm, a world unto itself, where normal rules do not apply, especially at 4 AM. police and drug dealers will peacefully coexists in the same space at the same time sipping coffee and thinking about business at usual. rednecks, fags, raver kids, gangstas, wannabes, yuppies, blue collar, white collar, villain, hero, proletariat, and the rare few who defy category it is where everyone is equally served mediocre breakfasts at any hour at a reasonable price it is where the broken and old spend their last dying sundays befriending the ever-changing staff, and the young get forcibly evicted as a rite of passage. denny's is where sometimes, the dream comes true. DECEMBER 24 2003 christmas eve was spent in a tent that smelled like kerosene eating hickory farms snack samplers drinking lukewarm peach tea listening to false yule spirit echo between the tents and spin off uselessly into the desert where it will fall to the earth and go unheeded by the things that dig holes and eat each other by night |