Magician’s Scarf

Who each woman is

Does she smell like lavender fields

More worthy of obsession with each passing Day

Why the fabric of her dress upon her skin causes men to sing?

The Earth springs forth, as I imagine, musical notes with her every step. Yes.

Such passion must she follow, as to leave us inspired

Her smile draws from an endless-deep joy well

Words from her soul have him come hither, a pulling of magician’s scarf

Shane Instead

Four rhythmic beats
Two words in West Indies timbre
And I was taken aback

Back, when I was something then
Again

Then again, back when I thought to dance
Those steps
Found me, easily

Those songs, those singers
Left me, heartily
Dancing alone, unknown
To me

Fly

I’d walk away from that song
Stand up
Assuredly and
Move as far from
Smothering, dark guitar riffs
Microphone too close to the lips
Smacks of the 70’s
Music, loosely-defined
Sounds no one thought much of
To this crowd, though, it’s fly
But I’m leaving the headache
The poor acoustics
The noise for these poor ears
Behind
Cue the fog machine and strange piano

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Winning Season

I’m patient
And there was endless music before you
I recall it played on and on
But I didn’t listen much
And I could get shit done and not hear
Propagandists whining feigned blues
Questioning my faithfulness to the sport
My heart’s whereabouts, my stamina
Like the notes and rhythm were Satan
And I was a modern-day Job
Let history repeat itself if it must

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