This Old Saloon


There’s a titter tatter hokey pokey rumbling the bones of this old saloon.  The thunder rolls thick through the wood and settles here under the foundation. The board and batten shutters swing off of hinges, plywood walls splinter and shave dust, floorboards stow grit and in pools of muck where insects multiply but we don’t mind, no.

This is what we’re here for, this is what drove us out of the sprawl and a quarter mile west miles into the earth: a pair of loose lips over a pill shaped microphone, the heavy and the not so heavy, boxes of sound. We sit silently, skinny and high and sick of the day.  We don’t talk about the things we don’t talk about. Like how the weather is a conduit for the mess we’ve made. How we ignore its potential. How we won’t admit it until it’s too late.

Until the hips sway and the rafters wobble, elastic. Until the smoke settles and a film of soot clogs our lungs. Until the eye of the storm passes and the copper light creeps in through every crevice and screw hole.

Until the well is parched and withered and the rainwater washes up on stage touching toes with those who sing and we swim around them like bourgeoisie mermaids in a bucket of piss. And afterwards when the current picks up and the skeleton of rhythm has been buried in the ashes, all together we’ll float back to the city stripped and bruised and ready for the dawn.