A room with a view

mini recording studio.

A clear day

Music

Old Clock Radio

I was once told
By a friend
That music is a healing force,
So on a cold night
In emerald flowing mountains
I set my cancer
Down by an old clock radio.

I dialed in
A static-tinged gospel station
With vibrations strung
Through the depths
Of Old American Man—
Chapped worn hands singing
Through a golden throat
And joyful claps
Flying out like
Scared-off crows,
Black over
Blistering wheat field.

Pale morning sky
Cracked through silver mists
Rolling off those green hills
Steaming up to greet the newly
Crested Sun as that old clock radio
Still played.

the devil made me

It makes sense that, in an attempt to craft an "edgier" poem, I ended up bringing in some christian themes.  I just have trouble approaching a topic without some sort of mystic reverence.  That's sort of overstated.  When I think of a topic I want to write about, I see it through a mental fog.  The lack of clarity, to me, gives it a certain appeal-- undefined edges wherein the story being told by the memory can shift, different interpretations can arise.  Those shadows, if explored, lose their mystery and their appeal.  Unless, of course, the reveal is shocking.


And so I wrap boring things in pretty clothes.  So it goes.

On a side note,

spectral sound

Let's say I bought the shirt based on the percentage of my record collection with that logo on it.  Also, I couldn't find a Deutsche Grammophon shirt for sale.


Also, something else new (then I'm done):

the devil made me

the city’s cold—
                let’s start a fire.
I’ll grab the matches,
be a doll and grab
the kerosene—
                a satisfying blaze.

obscene as we fucked
on the ashes
of the world—
                mixing it with our sweat,
you built bricks
from the turmoil,
the ensuing sin—

                a new city,
your flood, and our fire, subsided,
and a self-indulgent covenant
sealed with rainbow legs—

I swear, you were
floating away on bridges
I left burned, rebuilt
through divinely
entwined hands.
a creation myth
of twin gods, repenting—

                but godhood, robbed,
                and made satanic
                in your reborn cosmology,
                a new testament sold
                to willing young saints,
                zealous tongues
                repeating your gospel
                until the echoes
                solidify into the one truth.

when asked about the ancient arson,
you laugh and, simple, say—
                the devil made me do it.

but if he made you,
the devil made me, too.