#jug
Ruby Jeffords was cutting a rug
To the music played by hubby Bub.
Four guitars and a moonshine jug,
Bass fiddle made from a wash tub.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
There’s two stepping and stomp
And a lot of big cowboy hats.
It’s a country and western romp
And it don’t get better than that.
The fiddle player is sawing
Like he’s cutting a cord of wood.
The onlookers are clapping hands.
They’d all join in if they could.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
The dance floor is so crowded
Some people just sit this one out.
But they add to the joy and spirit
Because they clap loud and shout.
They feel the music and tap toes
Falling into the music and beat.
Bub playing, and Ruby dancing
Everybody tapping their feet.
Ruby Jeffords was cutting a rug
To the music played by hubby Bub.
Four guitars and a moonshine jug,
Bass fiddle made from a wash tub.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
i wanna understand art like i wanna understand you
i dont understand either but i really want too
all the secrets and mysteries
the scratches and tears
the colors and the hues
but my minds not quite there
it feels like a chase
falling into the floating maze of your head
im losing this race
and losing myself instead
trying to understand why you do the things you do
or do the things you say
feeling like i pay
for just a little ray
of your attention throughout the day
but why try to understand one girl
when there are alcohol and drugs
sorority girls everywhere
my life’s an open jug
i’ve filled it with sadness gladness and love
the liquid of sadness blue like mourning
the solid of gladness like a sunrise the next morning
and the gas of love, that sprays you without warning
this jug is a mess, with nothing to hide
it shows everything it is, it’s hurt, it’s ambitions, it’s pride
maybe thats art, pure genuine feeling
a symbol of something that stirs emotion or healing
maybe i’ll start to understand art
maybe i’ll start to understand you
cause you’ve opened my jug
and i don’t know what to do
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC