I struggle to understand
The Trinidadian who
Muffles his thick accent
With a waxily calloused hand
As kazoo and electric bass
Rattle in a concrete and metal can,
Mixed with drunken
Exclamations and candlelight,
So many sounds banging together,
Surrounding me like an igloo of
Pots and pans on strings,
Clinking and clanking in the arctic wind,
Each gust and howl
Assaulting like iron armored soldiers,
Rushing blindly around a smoky battlefield,
Pure aggression,
Striking blindly at first touch,
The mist violent with sounds,
I hunker down,
Find my place…
The noise becomes atmosphere,
Chaos becomes static,
Static blooms into a blanket of
Vibrations, patterns emerge and
I cocoon myself within and
Think my thoughts,
Once again convincing myself
That the storm outside is greater
Than the one within.
