I’m in a fire

I’m in a fire. Fear of hell is on the hour. If he of she wants me, it is painfully debated. A war inside. The eyes burn at me. From across the bar. I smile. Put down another drink. The feel of grip tape of a drum stick. My hand wants more. Earlier, destroying what we know as drums. Did you ask for a beat? I’ve got it covered. Yes, I recorded tonight. Yes, you gave me your number. Be a mother fucking peacock, man. Live your dream. I remember his green wig. I remember the other’s mesh top. I can summon the memories of fog surrounding me in my drums. The sticks in my hands. The pounding of the snare drum. Waiting for the train home. Thinking of you putting your make up on. The sound of your voice. He wants to tease me. John Waters movies on all the screens. The lights of the city while on the Q train. My black tights. Jesus on the cross, half naked, tortured, believers up in arms about violence. I run along the east side of New York. I do sit ups, drum rudiments, every morning before I make espresso drinks for people. I’ll never get tired. Another shot of whiskey. Yeah, I miss you. I’m not going to lie. These drums are going to speak to you like you’ve never been spoken to before.

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