Divatrance

Ear drums grafted into songs slung on pony hides that slide into the last galaxy on polished hooves. Who are the trapezers who pay 5 bucks to hear three people beat up a frenzy? How do we fly out over the ramparts with them, hover on the mist? We are descended from dinos, ancestors of birds -- we fly in our dreams by the cells of our past. DNA remembers. The pterodactyl heard a hit on the song parade last Friday when the static on the mountain leaned just right into the wind.

I want to know when humans tuned their guts on academic side shows, when songs became ditties and hymn singers yawned in the pews. I yearn to hold latch keys between ten digits, blue glass that shatters on the hard rock hall and makes you fidget your scruffy dance toe until you want to sanctify the wrinkle in your eye.