Common Ground
2003-09-11 - 6:49 p.m.
before/after
strangely
non-functional guestbook
I sat on the street, outside the coffee shop, playing my notes for the city. I see nothing grand about the town, I see no rapids named thus, populated by hardworking folk, negroes of all description filed past, listening to me play but like everyone else much too cool show me that they were listening unaware of the musician's rapport with everything his music touches knowing when you shift in your seat. my soul drifts out amongst the riff raff, the drug dealers the passers-by, making love to the city hoping for a home.
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