BeinGeneric
Bluelighter
There are songs in childhood, songs of dust and ashes, trolls under bridges and water that reached to the sky.
A morning spent in front of a television set.
Pine trees that could never be climbed.
My grandfathers rain barrel that stood rusted and bloating with green water and such tiny bugs that swam in packs like schools of fish and made faint ripples along the surface.
We would plunge our hands deep into it, until we couldn’t see the tips of our fingers and wonder at what turned the water so dark, keeping an eye on the back door of the house, waiting for the sharp intake of breath before my grandmother would scream, “Get the Sam Hell away from that thing! It belongs to your grandfather. You’ll get sick and then where will you be?”
Well, through many short summers, these songs slowly become sonnets of love and desperation, and these are what ring from strip to street, then to my tired ears tonight.
A morning spent in front of a television set.
Pine trees that could never be climbed.
My grandfathers rain barrel that stood rusted and bloating with green water and such tiny bugs that swam in packs like schools of fish and made faint ripples along the surface.
We would plunge our hands deep into it, until we couldn’t see the tips of our fingers and wonder at what turned the water so dark, keeping an eye on the back door of the house, waiting for the sharp intake of breath before my grandmother would scream, “Get the Sam Hell away from that thing! It belongs to your grandfather. You’ll get sick and then where will you be?”
Well, through many short summers, these songs slowly become sonnets of love and desperation, and these are what ring from strip to street, then to my tired ears tonight.
