All it takes is a radio broken open & the orchestra in there playing a tattoo,
Turning into taps:
The day doesn't just break, it outright shatters.
Little cymbals,
You're kissing all the right friends & they love it & none of the wrong ones.
The sunshine resembles a splay of legs in stereo.
All it takes is all your friends, (a village), a thousand compliments.
Fire shoots out of your feet like your body is a rocket
("No thanks honey I'm my own stabilizer now")
All it takes is a hundred bottles
Tuned to major intervals playing waltzes; the television licks its own adapter and dies, the dark
Pointless cloud begins to make a point.
©
is a musician and poet from Northern California. His work has appeared in New American Writing, The Iowa Review, Handsome, Abjective, Pank, American Songwriter, and elsewhere. After several years as a touring folksinger, he currently teaches songwriting at McNally Smith College of Music in St. Paul, MN. News, tour dates, and contact information are available at www.brianlaidlaw.com.
We’ve published two more poems by Laidlaw: “Your Brother Was Raised By Ghosts” and “Courtesy Call.”
