"I protect things that don't belong to anyone." --Sukha, Queen
And gone. Oh, to be gone, to be gone but to be, to be but be going. All we ever are is all we ever aren't.
The band on the green grass under the truly vertical red cliff walls call themselves "Cheat Grass" and play hippie rock and bluegrass. "Old. We're old, but not traditional." Eight musicians in a tetrad of two guitars, two mandolins, two vocalists, two drummers. Banjos, accordions, and kazoos make up their interludes, along with the sad-sounding response of the bandleader's black lab howling to any harmonica solo.
So low the angle of the sun, the southern crops have frozen, one by one. Time to be done. Be done or come home. It's all the same to time going.
We get drunk on these songs they sing, these details (with wine, with our own wantoness, with poetry, as we please) because we want to touch, we want to believe, we have come so close to and back from blank's own land with a true tale to tell on our lying, muscular, sad tongues.
And gone. Oh, to be gone, to be gone but to be, to be but be going. All we ever are is all we ever aren't.
The band on the green grass under the truly vertical red cliff walls call themselves "Cheat Grass" and play hippie rock and bluegrass. "Old. We're old, but not traditional." Eight musicians in a tetrad of two guitars, two mandolins, two vocalists, two drummers. Banjos, accordions, and kazoos make up their interludes, along with the sad-sounding response of the bandleader's black lab howling to any harmonica solo.
So low the angle of the sun, the southern crops have frozen, one by one. Time to be done. Be done or come home. It's all the same to time going.
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