LICORICE, part one
by Tony Larson

This is black when it get's thick as the ocean. This is finding musty, craggy clicks and stutters in a dark garage pierced by holy rays. This is the curb out front, and out west, to sit on and trade tapes. This is the toilet, white and golden, hot with smell and that girl whose hair stuck wet to the middle of her back last night, so beautiful. This is a handshake to seal a deal, a deal to get tickets and cigarettes before you pick me up. This is my mom, dancing with Gaye and the Chirelles and no one. This is 8000 speakers filled with spit and honey. This is trying to find her house, and his house, and their house and my house. This is harder than a math test and softer than a pony tail. This is a big mouthed bass bigger than a cat, sprinkled with Coors, sprayed from your mouth, stop laughing. This is a curtain. This is music.

©2003 Tony Larson