Orpheum

when sunrise was young and wet
angels threw forth lyrics
in polysyllabic fire

gabbing gurus

chimed in dawn

their faces illuminated like

a noncanonical manuscript

their music luscious and open

poetry sang, perpetually

speaking in bells, their tongues fold

into camels, rhythm tight

to slide from the needle

and pop the speakers

mother, taking stock

of the dancing crowd, notes

the t-shirts through the smoke

Black Francis and Mr. Bungle

and while everyone stood

some souls rose

for what it’s worth

____________________

Written late for Writer's Digest Wednesday Prompt: Appraisal