It is the
rye that lubricates the reeds within my battered Marine Band. Lemon Rum merely warms them. Wine has no effect , leaving the reeds cold,
lame, soulless. The rye makes my mouth
feel fat and calloused like the mouth of Sonny Boy Williamson.
It is the acoustics in the bathroom
that echo the wailing and moaning and stomping.
I drink the in the crapper on a Sunday night, pouring my woeful out
before the Monday morning machine dance.
The phlegm gets flowing from all the
sucking and blowing. I get fits of
hacking and gurgling. These spasmodic
bouts summon up the spirit of my three pack of Player’s Plain a day Father,
yacking and hacking in his work week weary morning ritual. Because of this, I blow and suck into the
battered Marine Band with a fat and calloused rye mouth with a certain holy
conjoining with a dead father’s spirit, succumbing, surrendering to a lineage
of weary. It gives the week a sense of
balance. Rituals are crucial in a
deteriorating world.
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