Circus tent stakes being driven into fields with a borrowed sledgehammer.
Rope pulling it all together.
Hand sewed lace stitched on the fortune teller’s dress…
with every stitch a wish.
Bodies on top of crowds moving to the roar.
Laying in the grass under a trailer for shade.
Wet paper towels put in the freezer and onto the back of my neck.
Nightgown. Faded ballet slippers.
Throwing biscuits wildly.
Crumbs in air.
Bruises on our arms from the guards.
What happens when we say – fuck it.
Hiding under a tea table in the tea leaf reader’s tent.
Drawing them in with a curl of my finger
and a note only mirrors can read.
Whispering in your ear.
Passwords and predictions.
Feathers in the wind dancing with us.
Meeting new friends in the lunch line.
Pictures so you don’t forget
….so I don’t forget.
Sitting on the back of a trailer.
Borrowed bicycles from the guys in Mayday Parade.
Closing my eyes in the wind while I ride fast.
Screaming because I can.
Because I’m alive.
Because you’re alive.
Wearing the wrist band of someone who isn’t anymore
who lives through us.
Moonlight and tall palm trees.
Wheelchair relay races in the parking lot.
Strumming a 1948 arch top f-hole guitar.
Singing a story into the dark night as
the road rumbles beneath us.
We are blurry.