matt pond PA

December 18, 2017

Odin, the Cat.

Half asleep here in my own bed. The morning mind blurry, a roan throat filled with gravel as light slowly shifts shape across the floor.

What I love and hate about music wrestles silently in the front yard. Siblings, clawing and punching in snowy dirt. A headlock might be an embrace. A curse could be a kiss.

Over hundreds of shows, after millions of miles, there is always the repeating moment — crossing the threshold of a squalid rock club. What’s it gonna be tonight? The convoluted chess of a sleepy concert in a nameless town. Odin is only a cat that keeps herself warm behind the beer coolers.

Supine tornadoes roil over the sheets. The gods of doubt cast miniature lightning bolts across the blue and green striped comforter.

Oh, these juvenile delinquent theories armed with tennis balls — aimed at the ego, aimed at the crotch. A periphrastic brain groaning about human lives measured in cash and clicks. To take pleasure in emptiness? To obscure loneliness? I will gladly accept more of less.

Words crawl toward noon. The defunct fireplace is still warm from last night’s blazes. The living room lies in ruins from an epic, insignificant celebration. My best friends are up in the sky, flying home. I am done.

For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing. Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh.