I wrote this poem while listening to a friend perform at a coffee shop in Oklahoma City called The Red Cup. It’s a great little hippy place. I can’t manage to locate my own photos of it, but the good folks over at Flickr have a few. The the photos are courtesy of UberJ, Billie Hara, Okie Dan, and BlueAthena7. So without further ado, a tour of one of my favorite places back home, through the eyes of some strangers who also like it enough to put photos of it up on the internet.
A main with hair blue to match his eyes
and illustrated arms
flies into a hurricane
where a cellist soars on upper level winds
his sweet sex jazz
diverging above the eye
and dark chocolate skinned Bailey’s (with a temper to match)
sings the song
that was my father’s.
and I, a bastard of Icarus
stretch honey-gold wings
against gale force winds
my stylus unable to record effectively
the rise and fall
of augmented fourth air parcels