Bo Diddley and the Roller Derby Pagans

I’m visiting friends in the USA. We take kids to a rooftop roller rink. One thinks I must be Morrissey. It supposed to be a roller derby, but it’s really some weird kind of pagan winter sun ritual. People and kids sit in a circle, chanting at the setting sun. I head downstairs into a wood lined chapel, a quiet space. Bo Diddley is there, in a framed poster, and as a ghost, discussing guitar design with another dead soul. I sit by them, and they fade. A TV on the wall plays a black comedy about a funeral home. 
Upstairs, a man possessed and partly dismembered plays the ukulele. His dog dances with excitement. 
I’m back at my friends place. They have too much stuff. Out of tune instruments line the walls. It makes me sad to see them. I need to be outside. I need more space. 


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