By Philip Ledford
It was like listening to Brahms in a rain storm.
A bitch mother of a rain storm.
The worst one ever witnessed.
His sharp progression of chords grabbed at my throat
demanding an end to my life.
I wanted my life to end.
He jumped and danced around the small bar room fingering his guitar
like a mad man with 134 fingers.
All 134 of them gnawing at the strings with unpredictable rhythm.
The noise didn’t make any sense and neither did his lyrics.
Lucky for me the microphone volume was far too low to hear
the absurdness that spilled from his mouth.
The audience of drunk bar patrons and teenagers with their angst stood their jerking their heads to the chaotic movements while I silently prayed for an end to the painful noise.
And then abruptly a liquored pink angel fell from the sky.
Her cocktail glass shattered when it hit the floor, silencing everything