Sunday, April 18, 2010

I Am the Electric Guitar.

I am the electric guitar.
I strum you down a field of flowers.
I strum you when the harp has stilled.
I take you home and fill you with music;
The sound of your crying wakens my cat,
I found him in an abandoned lot late one
And the sun was shining on a brick wall.

I am the electric guitar.
The words flow fast from my lips,
And the river flows and the sun shines
On the tabletop,
And my heart declares that I am in dire
Need of showering.
We are the news.
We are the apologetic.
I bought you at a pawn shop in Brooklyn,
You spewed songs from your lips.

You said you weren’t naïve.
I didn’t believe in naïveté.
I don’t believe in anything other than
My truthful words,
Burnt brown from ashes.
She said you would not melt.
That the cheese would melt the
That the landslides of commerce
Have not been broken into.
That our house was not put up for sale.

I am the electric guitar.
I speak words and worlds are tuned into shades.
We turn down the bright blankets
On the bed.

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