Bootleg Theater

The other night, I listened to music at a place wedged between empty storefronts with bars on the windows on a wide-open street with an occasional El Salvadorian market, a gas station, and cars always guzzling by. Inside the theater, a woman from Nashville played an old electric guitar and sang with that emotion where her head is cocked back and her mouth is a big black hole. The sound was everywhere. It had been so long since feeling art like this, and all I could hear was someone from an old poetry workshop describing my beer as amber nectar.