Teenage me walks across an empty field on a summer day.
Nothing but God’s green, stickers, mosquitoes
and Texas heat. My shadow is a guitar solo
covered in sweat. Jimi Hendrix’s guitar. My feet travel
a rambunctious soundscape. My feet are tired
time machines. My father showed me Purple Haze.
I’m walking backwards. Is it tomorrow
or just the end of time? Either way,
I’m pressing play.
Muscle memories tied up in my hamstrings,
the chorus of the past,
a rift in space and time.
You’ve heard it before,
how the body keeps the score.
I won’t lie. I keep everything
I find important. The meaning
usually shows up when I stop
trying to find it.