This loud, early morning noise from the southern hills. Perhaps a car show, they all lost their hearing.
Worn down with sleep deprivation, couldn't wake like normal. Week of assessments, lightouts, and Mexican food. Some can't trust nobody. Some can't look outward with curiosity, only disbelief and fear. Some wish it was the good old days. These good new days are the real miracle, suspended in this space, lifted from the depths, spinning. Squeeze the tree, coins and bills. Stash the cash, smack the criminals, the downers must leave.
Almost broke out in a slam dance, up close, getting pushed forward. People screaming the songs all around, strangers nodding and slapping hands, my bandmate looking nervous and without dip. Slipped back through the crowd, quickly, heads down, avoiding eyes. Got propositioned for a fight and gave the sideways peace sign. Like Prince used to.
The fun will continue at Western Days. Angels are taking care of it, the armoured humvee attraction was incredible. The U.S. Army was there. The steel doors of the vehicle were extremely heavy. The G.I. Joe's and Jane's, engaged and friendly. Some point, some go. The blame game is the oldest game in the book. Artificial turbulence is easy to spot. Just fight picking. Don't call them they! They are us.