we are here – if we are here – because of something that once happened on a train, or could have.
a thin-stemmed iron nail point – scrapes kief from off this grinder i was given as a gift of the coke dealer
who owned a hookah bar outside of which i met my dj. trace amounts of hash lining the magnetic, steel-
weighted herb grinder ensure my broke-ass a token high, if i can stand being more drunk than lifted.
review the contents of my life:
remington suitcase-style typewriter, refurbished by a loudmouth gap toothed chicago handyman.
roland sampler pad 404, twice busted by the skinny hipster guitarist who disliked sharing a studio
i co-founded; fixed by my wife, with the exception of one damaged quarter inch headphone input –
which favors its left channel.
rebuilt secondhand smudge-white apple laptop, mostly functional; though, yesterday, she refused
to take a charge; hopefully, due to some minor and temporary error within the now essential adaptor.
shall i continue ?
two jivewired speakers, overly protective of their fragile current – lacking both high & low end,
prone to buzz, pop, and short.
amplifier, m-audio, logic pro, text edit, tascam crossfader & the numark turntable phonographs
furnished by a crew mate at the perfect moment.
three pairs of headphones.
this house and room in which to stay mostly dry throughout a rainstorm.
the requisite shure sm58 handheld dynamic & assortment of cables.
an audio technica 3035 microphone & generic stand with spit guard, provided by the frenchman
who accompanied me to purchase my shure beta 52a drum mic – which i bought offline for vocal purposes,
owing to the sexy streamlined old style radio casing.
i have a habit of alienating people. perhaps i am alien.
my kind are more comfortable in front of a crowd than within one.
for a few weeks now, i.ve been smoking xeno.s paradox;
records stacked in a corner, records on the bookshelf
falling onto paint cans. clothes all over my floor.
not every problem can be solved with cardboard boxes.
may i explain ?
i recognize that i.m unreasonable, but choose to ignore it.
reason can be a demon. we use what.s around.
what do you want to know about an artist ?
my artist friends think the shit plays.
jazz player. soul man. comedian. preacher.
fuzzed wax & cracking vinyl litter our floor and walls.
today is remembered in high definition, in which case
i might clean the floor.
i guess i left out the camera, our portable music player,
my wife. we dream in color.
can you hear percussion ?
often, we value only what is lost.
tragedy stays up close.
dogs shed and my dog stands over her fallen hairs
as though to protect them from a broom.
picture me on the phone with some bigshot
who wants to put us on tv.
now i.ve been on tv before, but this is the one.
prime time exposure.
this one.s going to make it different, for everyone i know.
my homie sits by the window in a comfy chair.
smoke exhales from his mouth into a cloud that.s how big.
check it, bruh –
this cat, that.s mah niggah.
he.s an iceberg and moves for no man.
he might could shift a little for a woman, though.
we like our nights in black and white so we can fuck on film.
you.ve maybe been around. half the time, we don.t know
if we lived this or saw it somewhere.
i wreck mics.
so what are you – a promoter, hustler – you sell something ?
you some kind of artist ? you got a dream ?
sound flows through a mic into wire as electricity and out to m-audio
and the hard drive on my laptop.
food goes in the mouth – to your digestive system, through the toilet
and sewer, to the ocean.
waves vibrate into particles of air, shifting a needle onto wax
that hardens to reflect an echo.
the moon.s gravity calls to our ocean until water falls
as wave upon a shore.
i.ve heard of how an idea twitches synapses, manipulating chemicals
and forming furrows in the matter of our brain.
the crew becomes an instrument onstage.