Much like my own twelve string, I play the words
in such a manner makes me believe I might
need a keyboard to tell my story,
give me the rhythm to generate a mood,
the rhyme to suggest a setting sublime,
we all have our own worlds we like to dream,
looked outside tonight into a moonlit sky,
as ordinary as that, nothing peculiar,
deep, distanced, decimated disorder.
I like to laugh out loud without formulating
words, like my ancestors would have
not knowing how to speak their way
out of conflict, instead ale and fists,
and broken teeth with puffy eyes,
and smiles all around afterward.
At least that’s the way Id like to believe,
the story goes while I play my keys.