By Abel Ashes (All rights reserved)
Fake glass crystals look like ice in clumps above the stage behind the high pitches, strum and poetry of ether sounds.
A gargoyle wants to take a bite, but it’s made of stone.
The poor bastard never had a chance.
An eyeball shaped arrangement of photo prints in black frames shines glare off of panes of glass.
When Hans plays that piano he plays that piano, not the piano.
There is no more strum now, but words and laughter, then dishes clap together and the screen door squeaks.