There’s a place, such a loud place, inside music–
a shrill glitter though one might sense it not. To
tell how loud you must get inside ’cause zilch,
no, nothing’s as loud.
Imagine music turned up piercing the out-
side; that’s nothing. Wait for volume dealt with in
there. You may not love it in music–where it
gets so frigging loud.
It’s loud. Though for judging, one must get into
a music which may be for you a dark home
–a place, a point, not the outside but inside.
So, you. Inside. Go.
Mind your step in music, no shuffling or hobbling.
Don’t stumble. Don’t fall. Pick up your feet.
Don’t place feet in random order, all jumbled.
Only bring one cat.
This music’s done cafe’ forte; baristas
brew coffee for the ruckus. You’ll be glad once
in ’cause, I swear to God, there’s joy, love, and peace
written on the walls.
Within the shop screams one lone aloe vera
plant, a pillow with sofa, and a ceiling
made of attractive corrugated metal.
Walls shout local art.
In there you’ll find spinning dancers eating sand-
wiches from the darkest side of the moon. Tell
me, while whirling, must they eat their submarines
loudly chewing so?
As you leave the coffeehouse, go to your car,
or truck, or SUV, or bike. Do obey
the traffic rules because inside the music
fines are really high.
While home-tripping down a loud county road, you
might spy cotton fields and winds strong enough to
knock your grandmother down. Winds there are so loud;
cotton not so much.
Once again, for all this, you must get into
a music ’cause outside music you are lame.
Inside’s loud. Bit loud. Best be ready for that.
Just get in the groove.