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1000 Black Lines

:: digital coffee stains on the paper of the blogosphere ::

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Where did all the great drinks go?

Here's a poem sketch I wrote a couple years ago. I am considering editing it a bit and including it in an upcoming manuscript. Suggestions are welcomed.

ASHEVILLE, 10 PM--He tears his t-shirt off outside the downtown club, throws it in the back seat of his car, dons a white button down and velvet smoking jacket, grabs his Epiphone and strides down the small flight of steps to the bar.

* * *

Somethings never change when you turn the amps down and the cigarettes burn out and the haze of memory lingers in the lonely notes of a solo voice and a single guitar.

* * *

Everyone in pairs. The one back home seems farther away when the drink glass is empty and the last song is sung. I know the car is parked outside but I don't want to drive tonight. I want to walk this evening. I want to walk on the cigarette trail in the street light. I want to walk on the moonbeams into the heavens. But I don't want to drive tonight.

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