April 3, 1980
Holy Thursday and Rock & Roll
Yeah, I sit here now blasted by the blaze of guitar and drums.
The crowd is thin, silent.
No one knows how to clap. That’s the breaks.
I sit here thinking of Day, of sunshine, that shimmer from the lake like a million candles, lifting their lives up from the muddy, sulky depths to burn in a second.
I think of the ducks that wear their winding paths across these candles, weaving patterns of light and time.
Oh, and the seagulls that cry forlorn over the trees and their wings flicker in the sun.
They all beg for break. They all flock to the shores to the children with extended hands and open smiles. The children come on Sundays. They come to the water edge with humble offerings to these gods.
Yes, it’s Holy Thursday. The day has just begun.
An old man rolls upon his bench from sleep induced by Thunderbird. The dreams burn heavy in his eyes as he wakes, the sunlight a foul demon burning too, but at another level.
The sky screams of blue, the deep blue shaded in on post cards, the deep blue that washes up to the shore with the uneaten bread.
Yes, it is Holy Thursday, and I’m here now with music pounding in my ears and memories pounded in my head.