de.celebrated

most rock stars walk the memory back to the days when every concert was hard pressed and hard won, when they knew personally every groupie and went afterpartying with the club, fresh cuts on their lips they themselves had opened. when gigs were dive bars, audiences unpredictable if not hostile, and pay came in the form of an open tab. when a station wagon full of amps needed a jump. simple luxuries on the road. a bitter loaf of bread. one after one night stand. a pan full of eggs and bacon. walls dressed in hard wood. the percolating coffee pot to happy, ringing ears. crazy laughter and rolling eyes.  what just happened and did it, really? most rock stars dream of such beginnings. wishing they could cut their teeth on it again but no. alas, another sold out show. play the hits, play the hits! otherwise you risk sounding like you lost your edge. don’t break us in on new material, god, please don’t make us suffer so… they do. somewhere, under the belly of the rainbow disappeared, through the gold-plated bars of today’s high hung song bird cage. awash in stale hits. buried in mountains of paperwork. feeding the hungry custody of ex-wives. studying the tax codes. dining with didbits and divorce lawyers. oh, how a dream can turn back on itself.

5.5.5

Five were the aerial views of the heart. Valves played and polished like horns. Sound bounces off points to show form. An audio track. The history of the world. Ten were the arteries full of light and uncontained. See the narrative of the world bubble up from undersea. Liquid. Seamless. Without end. Fifteen were the compressions. Before and after life. Unstudied. Immeasurable. Wild. Unknown.

sorry division

the old sound was nothing like the new sound, and the new sound nothing like that which would replace it, but when the music was at its level best, well, you could tell the old lived inside the new,  a candle cased in glass, where all the moths gathered, and world reflections wide came to a collective point, we became one again you and me, before the flame flickered and the wick succumbed, gave way to the sorry division.

real unreal by katya

strikes

made my strikes

I went bowling over the weekend and made my strikes… we had nothing left to spare. I dropped some van halen on the ears and a ten pound marble on wax floors, and that puppy found its way to the void and disappeared, taking a whole lotta sticks with it to the hereafter. My form wasn’t very good and gosh, I didn’t care about the arrows or the baseball game or the scorecard on the screen next to it. All I cared about was turning around to look you in the eyes and know you loved me.

re.verb

last day of may the reverb

America. was the last day of may and all of the dead end streets look like never ending roads, and all the dead end relationships are enthusiastic pressing another go around with hopes one lucky night of what we once had may carry a small sound around and turn the johnny rotten back to first date territory with long lashes and laughter, and heal the deep gashes like reverb sweetening the deal, to hold a song’s triumphant note deep into the memory of the night, a stripped mall’s dollar store turned boutique, a dead end presidency turned back to camelot and kennedy days, a mid-preaching pause full of meaning, careless words begin to care, a rebellion to the cause of suffer leaning… it was the last day of may and we have a chance to be deep again, full again, and resonant

ensconce me

(re)cognition(s)

i thought all over you, i am sorry, i mean no harm, all my memories playin across your body and face like runny egg-white shadows and you don’t know what to do, so politely ensconced listenin to me go on and on about stuff we forgot purposefully long ago — OH — the damage i might do on accident, for me you would do anything, for you i would do anything, making something of you you are not, here with our cutoff gloves playing fingertipsies, blind to the sign language we are groping — THE — cognition is not fully lubricated, does not cover the entire street and buildings and sky and short bursts of nature in the medians, i guess in this ragtag mind i got, driftin here, pausing over there — BY — the cracks in the roads whereby loiters and got no business to be, trance music, clubs, dancing, you and me, why can i not hold up on our benevolency — PLEASE — i mean no recognitions, move along little thoughts, fly away, move along, there are interior spaces up in northern provinces, Canada and the like, which need fulfilling — SPACES — we will bundle ourselves up and head out into icy quiet not-threatening ones,  warmth of coffee and small talk, overtures of what we may be if we simply let ourselves trudge forward and go