FRANK'S sound-out-ian

dear solitudinarian,

apparently, if squatting down beside Miss Mary’s vehicle, and attired just so…

Prostitute

IMG_0148

on a thursday afternoon outside “Carolina Thrift Store”,

a creepy ol’ elderly man will ask you if you need money,

display a fist full of cash,

and raise a hooking brow.

beware, oh fair children of the mid-day.

ProstituteOHH

signed,

grossed-out by “THE LOOK”

and

turning to vote for the power of observation in a knitted stare.

Dear Rebecca & Elizabeth,

I could say that I came out of this music smoking,

But there was no black symbol,

And I’m still feedin’ the fire.

I could say that I saw my favorite ol’ time sisters,

dancin’ and strummin’ to beautiful rules.

But their river-y faces are always lamenting,

And I’m further away from their lives of service,

than I’ve every been before.

Who remembers them?

Who remembers you?

I could say that I remember She holding up the porch,

But I would be lying.

I don’t have these lovers,

They are long moving histories for sweeping…

I don’t need more people,

more women either,

because I found the final fire,

That makes me sing.

Signed,

Rocking Back & Forth

dearest discovering the dirt on your fat face,

in these lovely fevers… “WE WILL NOT GROW UP”

and do take full responsibility,

with honors of black and white,

minor and major monuments,

being ratified by the harpsichord player,

that I am in love with.

ALAS, in love without a porch to play on…

in this north carolin-ian way,

i will say it creeps up,

like the cotton falling on my head from “ALL THAT BANGING”.

signed,

where is the nearest gospel church?

dear girlie girl,

you are so madwomen-ish beside that green grass,

can you see your obsession in threes?

You know you can’t wear that coat anymore,

because it’s going back to the farm,

where “very good” is always boring.

can you hear me?

or do you hear the blue-er grass orations so-to-speak?

so it goes

and goes

and fills your cup with outside hymns,

vertical grand pianos,

squaring of partners with foes,

all dressed in history’s Woolworth face.

so, clean your rusty face,

go for a bike ride,

and listen to words written in,

“the music from our town”…circa 1956.

signed,

it’s the rule of my game.

i spy with my little eye(s)...

dear Harvey(s) & Black-ie(s),