each

 

I look at old records at a

record swap meet the

tunes playing now in my head

as if itís a CD

they are dusty and swirled by the heat wind

of somewhere of L.A.

and sometime the sellers speak to me tell

stories of the records they know almost with no bottom

a bottle of something which hurts your stomach

sitting on a truck seat next to them

the stories can be painful

like the concrete gravel scratched circles of vinyl plastic

burned a shade of different color now

somehow softer yet more sad