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There’s this fella I enjoy. His name isn’t really important, it’d be like addressing a god by his first name. He hails from Omaha . The hot spot. the hot spot. Little screaming girls scream he’s hot. He’s hot. Jenny’s heart screams along to the unmistakable sound of his shredded vocal chords. Emotion. It rains emotion and half notes . Standing in the crowd, im hidden in a sea of bobbing heads with open ears that are pierced three thousand times. I’m obscured by fog. No its not dawn, its second hand smoke. Its weaving itself into my life. My shirt still smells like cheap cigarettes but its alright. ITS OK. I embrace it just as I embrace any little path that leads to any little memory of the concert. My head is cocked slightly towards the right . that’s the way it was turned from ten thirty until whenever the fella cut his guitar strings attached to our hearts . …. Or vice versa. I close my eyes and I see his crazy eyes, sweeping from opposite sides of the agora, stirring up all the dust and shaking off all the hidden skeletons only to leave us vulnerable and emotionally exhausted. Not physically, mind you. We left our bodies and floated up with the notes , becoming one with the echoes . We were the music , if for only a short time. All the while I had a boy on my back to wipe the tears. Yes, I admit it I cried. A little. A lot. Silently , something inside me just needed to be released. A pipe burst post phone call to the plumber and what a plumber I got. Can you follow my metaphors? I’ve forgotten what picture I was painting and I think I might have used the wrong color. And than im back in my body again. Screaming girls and sighing friends. I cant sigh. I’m left in awe. My voice cant compare and I refuse to talk unless I wont ruin the moment. These moments are what I live for. I’ve found a fire exit in reality. Maybe one day I’ll light the flame.
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