The High Hat Solo
blow by blow, the drummer’s foot stomps that pedal like she’s kicking the world in the ribs, cymbals crashing silver in the dim, hi-hat chick-chick-chick in a wild solo to nowhere and everywhere. there she plays under the hot spotlight, the girl with the brushes and the furious heart, beating it out while the room
Mice
I need something else, something other than the low-down hum of silence blowing through my wide-awake bedroom like the ghost of all the roads I never took, the heater dead, the night frozen stiff at six below. I’m lying here in this fever-cabin with the taste of my favourite Mexican place, Las Iguanas, still rolling