golden souls

i wrote a poem on two receipts, here is the poem, in quotations, along with my thoughts, in brackets: //

[we arrive to a backyard, where a house show is being held. we are early. the sun is just beginning to close its eyes.]

"there's a little bit of gold
at the top of the trees
and the sun is setting."

[the first musician arrives. eddie (my friend) knows him. he goes to say hello while a few guys set up the makeshift stage. a guy in black pants and a navy button up shirt, with a black cap and kind eyes, comes over to us to introduce himself. i don't remember his name (note to self: ask eddie what the guy's name is). i think he is the one who arranged it all, perhaps this is his home. i wonder if he ever steps back and watches all the strangers that come together in his home for art of all forms?) the musician gets ready, guitar in hand, says hi into the microphone. his name is noah. he begins.]

"the gold is gone
but he's singing about
toothpaste— his voice
is drowsy, like his
guitar strings."

[there's a good crowd of people standing and sitting maybe seven feet away from noah, while he sings. when his toothpaste song ends, he takes a pause before he plays again, tells the crowd that it's okay to come closer. clap. dance. whatever they wanted.]

"people (guys) were
sitting on the ground
—i think this song
is called cocaine—
they stand up with cigarettes
in one hand
dancing, jumping
around."

[i stop to scribble these notes in between my fascination. these people are so in tune with noah. their bodies twirl in his words and music.]

"i like their clothes.
they have character
like their souls.
i feel out of place
but they are so vivid."

[one receipt is done with. i look for another piece of paper. it's getting darker now, as the sun has completely closed its eyes. noah is still singing. i really like his voice. i find another receipt to write on.]

second receipt

"sometimes
i cannot stand
this smell
but i adore
these humans
with their
raw souls."

[it smells like cigarettes, beer and other things. it's heavy. but i'm watching all of these strangers exist. i wonder if they know each other? or, are they, simply letting the art that surrounds them inspire small talk and curious eyes? i'm in awe.]

"there are three—
no, four— guys
standing so close.
i think they
can feel the heat of
his breath.
it's all so strange
and
vulnerable."

[the four guys were the most in tune with noah. they were right in front of him. they were the one's with the outfits i liked. they were jumping, chanting "noah! noah! noah!" they asked noah to play another song, in exchange for a cigarette and three dollars. noah agreed. i wonder what their eyes looked like, being so close to a vibrating and drowsy voice...]

// that was the end of our night, we left when noah finished his last song. i hope to return. i'm captivated. what an evening... 🌱

Cheyenne RaineComment