guitar raised up
nearly vertical
fingers moving
banging out big
full booming chords
dashes of quick flurry notes
eyes closed
feet pounding
down
on wooden board floors
singing unknown lyrics
thinking...what am I doing?
no calculated nomenclature
of this soul song
close to the source
skirting the secret:
we are not what we talk
we are what we sing.
the tired monk
I LOVE this! We are what we sing indeed.
ReplyDeleteLove it!! Life is an electric guitar you hold up above your head and play to Jimi, Stevie-Ray, and every garage band wannabe whose rhythm rises with heavenly souls. Yup, we aren't what we talk. We are what a poet sings.
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