a junkyard utopia in the middle of the desert,
deserted in the middle of nowhere,
musicians, artists and religious dissenters live for a reason no one knows.
is this where the rowdy go?
away from civilized society,
or plato's republic.
we tend to the neck of a guitar like surgeons in a thoracic cavity of a crashing patient as the dirt blows in our face from a spiteful dry wind;
slapping,
plucking,
picking the strings to sustain the most beautiful song ive yet heard but cannot remember.
only faintly the rhythm,
and dirty-faced, dread - headed smiley strangers,
alongside me and my moon - headed friend from the waking world.
i muse over what finger I'd sacrifice for that sheet music.
good songs are worth a dime a dozen, as I've been told, but I'm sure that one has got to be worth more.
at least 6 for a dime for a melody of that nature.
