There’s a place, a shrill glitter, inside music–
a loud place; you might not let on about. To
tell how loud you must get inside ’cause zilch,
no, nothing’s as 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.
Imagine music turned up piercing the out-
side; that’s nothing. Wait for the freaks found in there.
You may not love it inside music–where it
gets so frigging loud.
Mind your step in music, no shuffling or hobbling.
Don’t place feet in random order, all jumbled.
Wear shirt and shoes and a big ol’ funky funk.
Only bring one cat.
Then croon though afternoons as far as you can
howl– flip off chrysanthemums, curse at birds,
whoop-whoop-whoop at neighbors scooping after dogs.
Then go get coffee.
In the cafe’ screams one lone aloe vera
plant, one pillow with sofa, and a ceiling
tiled in brazen tin–all waking up the dead.
Walls shout local art.
This forte’s done caffeine loud–the baristas
brew coffee for the ruckus. You’ll be jazzed once
in ’cause, I swear to God, there’s joy, love, and peace
painted on the walls.
In there you’ll spot 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
road sign rules ’cause inside music traffic fines
may be excessive.
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 loudness ’cause outside music you are lame.
Inside’s loud. Bit loud. Best be ready for that.
Just get in the groove.