Blues riffs are bigger than the bible –
smoke encircles the stage
like a spectral mosaic of St. Paul’s
guitar face –
Matthew rapping poetic about miracles
never saw calloused brown fingers
scraping distorted angels from the cold nickel strings
like genesis.
Notes never really die
they just join our other longings
in the back of the Bar.
Published on
Dead Snakes
November 2013
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