Happenstance At 79th And Broadway Olef Ransom Saulles
Angel’s harp ensnared. His neon glare struck mad on slickened paths, Greeting me like good friends traveling through turbulent nights. Then through rustic gates, anticipation thickens like country gravy. The humble gather, spared with warm deliverance. Sweat functions like compressed steam; labors to escape. " . . . Mike . . ." Drink – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 - . . . Taut fibers unbound. Pupils focus on hallowed hall of brass fixture and depicted mahogany. Many browse the amber glass. A sliver between the frame and door offers a glance at the pedestrian traffic: Glamorous bands sharing blood and soil. I focus on a hard woman, with cherry burning. She emerges, the image granular and sinking. The blaring refrain witness destruction. "I deconstruct!" reflected with chrome pourers and mirrors: Glass grinds into sand. Black is flesh beaten. White is flesh neglected. I hate the street, hate congestion. These spoils of gold in the blood remain communal. So now I am burnt. But warm to the touch, remembering my friends retort: Everybody’s shit stinks.
READER'S REVIEWS (3) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"I read this and maybe it'll come to me later. Sort of like when I stepped in dog shit but didn't know it until later when I smelled it driving in my car." -- Dick Koss.
"Sorry Olef, I posted my review on the wrong piece. It was for JKPayson. This was actually pretty good. " -- Dick Koss.
"Do your guitar strings break often on stage?" -- R. Bennett.
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