people are drumming.
mardi gras morning. along the river. people are drumming. as a deep fog
creeps over the water into the french quarter. a wall of emptiness. void.
and on the edge. drums. echoing the memory of the night before. gutter punks
and others. remembering. keeping the spirit alive.
i stop and drum for a while. joel is here. he drums as well. the drumming.
seems to fade and i set the beat. i feel like a conductor. holding together
the rhythm. so people can drum over it. they try hard. but alone. they do
not know the tribal beats. joel and i. keeping the beat alive. i drum until
my arms swell up. i cannot feel them; i am on dxm. but i know i should stop.
disappearing into another place. when i return later they are still drumming.
perhaps i was wrong.
muse@musespace.com