At the theatre down the street
no longer relating to misery,
my voice is flat and can’t hit the higher octaves.
Candles are lit on a Friday night.
Bourbon on the melting rocks of a global warming newsfeed,
Florence and the Machine, the signs of the times.
Set and setting established.
Man and his endless pursuit;
heading out on tour in a few days
looking for some fans.
The days of Zen are once upon a time,
don’t make meaning of what I’m saying,
the riddle is in the life lived.
Tonight, she said, it’s all about awakening
while she fell asleep.
Who is she?
Good question, keep asking.
The moon in Austin tells a story.