Friday, April 20, 2012


All La Glory

These guys never plug in before midnight
keeping unholy hours, playing without
a break until someone notices the
tanged rim of the sun through the mist rising
from Overlook Mountain, washes of chords
from the Sacred Harp cascade down rounded
ancient shoulders, blue runoff in rills, brooks,
streams, a river returning to the source
Eternal nightly gig, a trio now,
smoking, swapping japes as they unpack trunks
of old harmonies, flat and creased after
all these years, the long wait for a rhythm
section finally over, The Weight from
the top now, count off those four flat bass drum
thumps, smoking, swapping verses, time to kill
before the night winds wail and the others
stroll in, short trip back to the big pink house. 

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