Picker

Tonight like all nightsthe beery crowd is inattentivewhile he rasps bad coversHis picture, at the doorwithout a grey hairis the illusion of memoryLive every nighthis voice, fingersworn by the years of living highReduced to strummingsupported by rhythm acecollecting scaleHe is a defrocked priestknowing of the sacrilege of holding the crucifixIn their caseshis Martinhis Fenderawait his [...]

By | May 19th, 2007|music, poetry, sketch, words like ashes|1 Comment