scissor chopped mop top, this friend I'm with,
has had it up to his rapidly moving mouth with
the bookstore coffee shop American church and
he laughs in a decreasing tone
classic rock tom roll like only a drummer can,
and taps out two fives for another round
of Paulaner Salvators.
we love each other, barely see each other,
and tonight, we're jumping topics,
like he says-
"Michael Behe was on NPR, an intelligent design advocate, the guy isn't off, knows his fossils,
soil layers, and the holes in contemporary theories,
dude firmly grasps the scientific method...
...when he punches his distortion pedal, bassy Black Sabbath rumbles ribcage and I get shaky, at times ambient, often eclectic, and soon we'll add samples of presidential speeches proved wrong
with 20/20 hindsight and b-movie horror monologues...
...it’s Frida Kahlo! get over her eyebrow! just my mustache moved a couple inches up. she dressed ballzy, I mean pantsuits in her early twenties; and you know I dig those beatnik chicks, slouch mouthing cigarettes,
bad mouthing men, legs wide open, and in my top five most beautiful women, the Nigerian waitress at the Baltimore Street pizza place"
and we're rushed.
Phillip Tubbs plays in twenty minutes
on the northeast in his churches' parlor, and he's
the romantic acoustic guitar soundtrack to years when
I was chubby and mohawked, and mop top was resisting
the temptation to migrate to Austin with
all the rest of El Paso.
on the radar
dodging drive, we wonder
out loud if Phillip will ever play
"the year two thousand"
from his 1999 seven inch again
and six songs later, we're awed; he's newly nurtured
this whispered richness in his voice, cheekbones
oultine his baby face,
dating a flat ironed cute hair stylist, studying music education at a
local university, and
we don't care about the year two thousand anymore.
we're imitating French Bossanova in falsetto, treasure hunting for northeast
dive bars in my dad's white Saturn and
we, we want burritos.
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