On a Friday evening in deep summer
my father has come home from the tavern,
and sits in the kitchen in his work clothes.
Cigarette burning in one dirt hardened hand,
with the other he grabs me by the arm,
laughs as the coal dust makes me sneeze,
says, "You can catch lightning in your
hands if you're quick enough," pushes
me away and reaches back for his beer.
The flicker of fireflies in the air dims
and the alley is dark except for the weak
street-lamp light outside Cooper's Tire Garage.
I let a mayonnaise jar drop from my hand,
it shatters against concrete, my captive
dying fireflies crawl out over the glass.
I hear beginnings of thunder and climb
the fire escape that hangs down from the side
of our apartment building, go to the tar roof.
The Allegheny River curves dark green
below me, car headlights move along
Pittsburgh Street, beneath rail-yard lights
the train tracks run black through the glare
of white gravel, and the steel bridges
more numerous than I had ever imagined
connect up darkness with darkness
as I stand on that roof scabby-kneed
surveying what is suddenly my kingdom.
Beyond the hills across the river,
jungles explode with trip lines, fighter
jets roar and tear apart the sky
and earth until it is all a tunnel
in which napalm glows out of sightless eyes
surrounded by black clouds and smoke
that slide behind my father's words,
his silence and his eyes. My streets and car
headlights blur. They are my fireflies.
Thunder pounds like detonating shells,
stripping the air. When the lightning hits,
it blinds me. I could be crawling
over the tar, sharp rain falling
around me or standing in darkness
above the house, shaking. I feel someone
moving behind me. I know the smell
of tobacco, sweat, beer, and coal dust.
I'm quick enough to know it's my father.
You can't just sit down and write songs like these. You have to wrestle with the angel first. Tyrella has done that- the proof is the songs on Albedo. He is a master songwriter. Rodney DeCroo
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