A Crushed Out poem

“Get gone, these blues. Chased away with sting and reverb, the crush of tom and bass. Crash cymbal and shatter chords with frenetic strumming driven off the high flip of a lyrical dive. Beat dusk into memory. Pound the dirty floorboard in time, bathed in purple neon and surrounded by freedom and sweat. Dresses flare, legs bent, arms loose and in swing like carnations grown upside down in a California wind. Let it hang and swirl, thick air and sated thirst at each pause. And the clap and laugh, nervous flittering eyes across rooms immersed in youthful desire, and this totem of solitude breaking, cracking, failing as each note chips away at such frail composure; such stoic inhibition. Each sip, each fleeting crackle of connection leaping like arcing synapses from here to there, to undulating curves and welcome. No need in this forest to grow alone. Merge. Sway. Get gone, these blues, and soak in the glee of now. Swim in the stirred up crush and fall into rhythm with the lot. Hair stuck to flushed cheeks, walls down, sagging drapes threatening to let the world into this private synchronicity, it’s the stomp and drive that threatens to detonate, teasing crates of nitroglycerin with careless throttle because yes, tearing the walls down too would let that cold world in. But it would let our love out. And it would infect the night with the bliss of our fever.” - Jason Santo (www.jasonsanto.com)