Open Stage Wednesdays At Eight All Welcome

Mike’s banging the strings right now
and certainly getting some original noises
out of that ancient, worn out,
catalog-origin, shitbox
frail-necked banjo.

Many marvelous errors are being made
while his hands walk toward
the transcendental possibilty
of the greatest song ever, 
and thus we are at
his mercy, at the edge
of awful and awesome
which by all accounts
is where we ought to be tonight:
wrong or almost wrong, often;
but focused entirely upon those moments
when someone pushes beyond the
best possible rightness.  

Mike may not get there tonight or ever
but we can see it from here
every time he plays with his eyes closed
and the odd chord falls off the banjo
into the room as perfectly as a little bird
spotted singing in a bush on a river bank
in the moonlight of our grandparents’ courting
long, long ago.