Posted in poetry

40 Watt

They stamped my hand and ringed my wrist with paper, permission to pass the unadorned, opaque, and dark double doors into the sanctum of raw forgetfulness, where all the thought demons of the day are admonished, unwelcome, left to drown under the palpable animal pulse of the bass and the mad truths of the screams of the lead guitar.

Author:

I’ve retired after a career teaching law. I divide my time now between Athens, Georgia, in the States and the south coast of Ireland.