(no subject)
in my sophomore year i met this guy who was all
denim, chrome, and soul 45s. he made basement demos
about urgent battles and they were soaked in grit
and stray dog zen, stories of all the races he'd been in.
my friends called him saint alive, and we were
sure that he would never die. but take those
curves too quick and you end up adding a bloody
rasp to the chorus of quiet august nights.
his last breath sent the heat into the hundreds for weeks.
we like to think he made a last legendary grasp at the stars.
for all the dog day nights when center city seethes & explodes
we go up in the silent hills and set fireworks off real low
so maybe he'll feel beautiful fragile flames:
burning young gunshot galaxies, embers that
float, fade, and fall back to earth.
in the swirl of sparks and smoke we say that saint alive
still rides in storms and songs and friday evenings;
when the summer bleeds its gold invincible promises
and whispers about not having to fight anymore.