No Dancing in Waco
Before anything else, blame The Allure.
The Allure will return to you, rich
as a New York styled cake,
subtleties bursting out with each tall bite
of air. The Allure is the half-moon
curvature of hand over the piano’s
busted back – “play me”. The Allure
is not the hometown sidewalk,
the shattered galaxy of 40oz
glass, the lit pistol of a cigarette.
No, The Allure doesn’t despise those
things but. Doesn’t believe the problem
to be inside of you, but. The Allure
keeps tallies in that leather-bound
brain-case next to the closeted
arias, old soul sheet music, manhole
steam rising past the uvula,
the common breath of ghosts.
The Allure has lost interest
in the tongue’s zig-zagged
English, instead, prefers to lay
the first syllable of silence
across your chest. The second
somewhat of a snare. Now, feel
free to blame the way your hands
work – slow and dumb –
crucifying the guitar
for its own arthritic neck.
Once, and Again After Midnight
Decrescendo. Sweet hubbub of silence.
Let’s go down to the Hippodrome
to speak backwards one last time.
Sterling histories spun counter-clockwise,
fistfuls of high notes, a necklace
hanging in the window of your throat,
I’m into all that noise. Something –
more like a dream – comes to me,
only it hits while walking. Your shoes
shaped like the boxes they bury
Egyptian kings in, the gold dust
in your breath pollenating
the rusted locks along Main.
I’m handed a barber’s strop
and a railroad tie. Sharp exit
and the ghost of Monk weaving
Between The Devil and the Deep
Blue Sea on a piano of broken
glass and bar-naps. He’s right
over there, and there, a crooked
brim parked over his eyes.
Downtown’s cross-legged tragedy
asking: won’t you feel this, too?
Bio:
Ashton Kamburoff is a native Ohioan, currently living in San Marcos, Texas. His work has appeared in Toad, Blast Furnace, Hartskill review, amongst other literary journals. He is currently enrolled in Texas State’s MFA program, and is desperately awaiting the beginning of baseball season.