When the nitrates burned a hole in the sky and the temples of man burned to the ground, I though of nothing but you. Away on the seas of antiquity, I thought of you. With the burning of your eyes and blue eyes crying in the rain. Or in the terminal as I got loaded up in a C-9 or C-130 or C-whatever with a green bag on my back and some distraction in my mind. Now I never think of you at all.
But when I spend the night in the thrall of playing an instrument tuned and tucked and polished to beauty unknown to your kind, I miss you a little. You drunken fucking whore. I mean that in the kindest way.
I know you would laugh all that off and drink more. And more. Or have you switched back to the blue crystal stupidity that claimed you in our origin?
Unfortunate, probably. I still value you.
Nice.
Comment by anaglyph — July 4, 2008 @ 9:43 pm
Guitars. Women. Casey.
That’s all I’ve got.
Comment by Your future girlfriend. — July 5, 2008 @ 8:23 am
If it’s explosive, it must be Casey.
Comment by Jill — July 6, 2008 @ 10:56 am
Anaglyph: Thanks
Future Girl: Where the fuck are you? Salt Lake still? Goddamn you can not rely on a woman. Not that I will not forgive all when you rest aloft my thigh and are caressed by my breathing and loving and tender loving care.
Jill: You know me so well.
Comment by Casey — July 6, 2008 @ 2:11 pm