Who never embraced worldwide fameand sabotaged his health to cope andwas possibly wary of so-called fans
who could turn on him when they did notget what they wanted. But he channeledthe muse as we say which I imagine is
akin to how my new guitar sounds to meas if certain notes are a call to angels. Chordsresonating like I’ve stepped back into
Fort Myers, Florida in 1981 when I spya kid’s parents frolicking, the only G-ratedword to use for my fourteen-year-old eyes,
behind a hazy screen door. I don’t rememberthe kid’s name, just sweating glasses on a lowtable and his older sister’s insistent bikini, and
my obsession with airplane crasheswhile singing “Under Pressure” inthe echoey stairwell open to the humid
night air, catching the scent of magnoliaswhich I forever associate with my lackof useful knowledge of the future.
The Gulf radiates moonlight, windhums through the wires and palmleaves like dry brushes being gently
dragged along the ground. That dayI got first degree sunburn and trudgedacross the beach to return to the dark
air-conditioned room where my fatherwas always sleeping at midday, thoughhe still managed to get a decent suntan.
Photo by Rushina Morrison on Unsplash