Concavity

I feel the deep grooves in your face
On my fingertips
With every breath
I fall deeper down the smooth sides
Of each

Concavity

You tell me your story
I listen
Grasping onto each word for just too long
Leaping from one note to the other
For just an hour

For rhythm is our time
It goes “pat pat pat” on the sand
Melody is our architecture
Crashing and building with each wave
Music wrapped around your story

Then I almost see it
A murky tear, maybe?
Please, don’t cry
Or I’ll become deaf to the waves
Blind to the moon

As my fingers numb
I desperately run them through your curly, dark hair
Trace your strong brow
Follow the soft edges of your lips
Sink leagues into your face

It’s a dry cold at the bottom
Blue and bruised
A frostbitten field
I am afraid to move
Petrified

A heartbeat
As my arm brushes against the steep wall
Brine flows from the cracks
Along burning red faults
The flood of ages!

The water boils
The billowing steam bellows
The iron is lifted
You are free
To fly away

Goodbye, my Skylark
I loved you when you were cold
I feel you when you can’t
I’ll keep you when you’re old
In my own

Concavity

~Anonymous

Dispatch fr da North

Last Saturday, there was a Halloween show @ shitbox in mid-town Anchorage. A rambunctious affair, here's the band list: the Flying Hearts, Los Gran Torinos, Stubby's Crack Co., Downed By Entrails, and the Spenard Satans. The audio-track bled gypsy punk and black metal. An eternal polka de los muertos. Booze, crimson, street folk/creatures, and even a gawd-damned chainsaw all made appearances. It was the first time I've ever seen beer & vomit icicles on a car. Nerds will never come out of the carpet, still picking up pieces of doors and bookshelves, and we put a few more dents in the ceiling.

Obviously, a grand time was had by all!

~e.b.