The House of $2 PBR

I refuse to conceal how sadly present I am in this writing, not freakish, but – the reactions here keep a tone of total indifference. Swing hard, Merrell. It is the bottom of the 9th. Even still, not engrossed by that or what’s happening on stage. In the fog a striped shirted man hollering and strutting, like a Mick Jagger on lean. Classic punk style but vacuous of meaning now that ‘punk’ has illuminated itself elsewhere. 

Standard human hearing. Comfortable socially. There is hardly a method you know, getting neglected in the chain of shots. I wasted it on myself for transient holy feelings when the rest were made uncomfortable with their tasks for closing… you moved nowhere closer to your goal. 

Does that place exist? No, and it was in San Diego. Might be a rush of waitstaff from other places coming in. That’s my temporary. I am sorry for keeping you up – move into an uncrowded bar –  but with too much gain on the cymbals – punk with a miscue in. Painful production (with that high gain) – we capture emotion with intent to make it reach the frequencies of Standard human hearing. 

Let’s talk about dad and mountains. Practice environmental consciousness and think with the M.S. Merwin poem about the names of trees they grew up with and never knew, I don’t know, and I don’t know (cut off the serrated edges next time). I am clearly engrossed and alone, but alone in a place like this, the house of $2 PBRs, looks like waiting, waiting for a beloved friend to show up out of the fog. 

The weather for last call might prevent and influx… “Play like a champion, leave no doubt.” Can you close my card whenever? I’m sorry but who are you. Little cues, rags thrown aside while harmless patrons sip slow last calls or play pool without adding to their stamped cards. You moved nowhere closer to your goal. 

The jealousy can’t be mutual. For me it is a weight I think I can ignore, no matter how many knots form in my shoulders. No longer in the house of $2 PBRs, and cars zoom by the Florida ceiling windows, enjoy yourself angel… enjoy your baseball – share your mouthwash, forget the aux cable, etc. Forget the rest of the World. 

 

experimental music

It’s late. I’m drowsy from driving
and lifting boxes and trying
not to feel uncomfortable.
When my sweater fits like a second skin
but something grows between the layers,
an unreachable itch,
and the wipers sound off
for almost a mile before
a grey, starless night
and abstract noises
dominate the radio waves,
spiraling out
arms of many galaxies,
sent from the branches
of the arteries growing
in between your layers of skin,
vibrating the particles
finding a home within them to rest and cease.
Our nonchalance helped
ginger beer and distiller’s reserve
feeling like an old man with
freshmen french classmates
making a mockery
of how my hair looks
when flowing behind my head
beautifully in the wind
and the romantic kiss under the tower
gardens erupting in our eyes
as if it wasn’t just tongue
spit and gnawing at your lips
but our nonchalance did help
it was cool, you know
barely even mattered.
So I amplify the sound of crumpling paper
{as in another overthought first draft}
and layer it beneath
experimental swellings of
a moog synthesizer
and a history of electronic music
when signals were without tones
considered in the vocabulary of music
a random code has returned to melody
math is now music
and vice versa
I could amplify the sound of your breath
leaving and returning at the pink
hair dye stained pillow case
in the double stacked mattress bed
the forget me not green tangle design
and your breathing could be a symphony
a binary code to identify
the quality of your air
in and out
plucking of an acoustic guitar
in and out
nylon strings
math, vocab, hair dye, and a cut
a pipe organ feed through tremolo
concentric wobbling
connecting cables that shouldn’t
to invent biological music
genetic code to our essence
that makes the fire starting art instinct
in us to create without boundaries or care
in and out
a piano soiree with a concert hall full of black and white keys
to unlock nothing