My Cardboard Balcony

Spraying Neon by Belinda Roddie the act of four or more musicians of the not-quite-hetero selection of homo sapiens  group together in reds and silvers with big, broad gloss guitars, sleek locks, buttons, and zippers, no velcro, no duct tape, no chains or overtly flashy trinkets - just the colors and polished microphones carrying the power of half a dozen's tremendously fabulous sound that spews out half a rainbow that meets with the ultraviolet glee of the audience, that lights up the entire sky in a spray can neon along a blue concrete wall waiting to be stained with human emotion.

Howard had a 1963 Chrysler turbine car sitting in the cobblestone driveway beside his cobblestone home, and it hadn't been driven since the year it was made. He made good use of it as a lawn ornament, allowing the green to grow around its hubcaps like braids on a rubber man's head. I had wanted to drive that car so badly, but I knew it wouldn't be in good shape now. I wouldn't have been surprised if its engine had turned entirely copper from rust.