Every break in the paragraphs, here, I take another quick sip of the coffee. Can't let it go cold.
But see, I really wanted to just get up there and join in... stir the word stew with him up there - jam out a song of words...
...to pick up a rickety four legged wooden stand that was probably made by the hands of a carpenter who lived off his trade and fed himself with splintered hands and hammered his utilitarian treasures inside a factory that's either been closed, now, for a generation or has even been toppled by steamrollers...
AHH... I wanted to grab that small wooden stand and disregard my own befouling of its antiquarian essence by setting up the glistening, glowing lap top computer (that I use to write on before it died) and start churning away with him, letting myself get lost in the knotty, serif-prickled jungle of these taunting types, unwinding words snapping off like a disenchanted, cloud-hungry kite.
[Where did all that gristle over some imagined carpenter come from? That guy is everywhere. The ghosts of Detroit are watching us shuffle around and sometimes squat within the ruins of the world they used to operate inside on a daily basis...and here we are, now, inside the charming but hauntingly worn-upon ambiance of Omnicorp, listening to the beautiful assemblage of words, scraped up from diaphragms... ] Why am I fixated, so suddenly, on transience?
The mind goes a mile a minute listening to these words - but it doesn't help that I've downed so much coffee and that now I'm listening to some local music.
Phreddy read from his new Chapbook last night. So did Ivan Grass and Mike Lala. Brooklyn based poet/writer/spoken-word performers Amy Lawless and Allison Paty also came to read. This is part of [sic]'s Reader Series, an art and music -infused evening of words and disarmingly frank and funny and at points ferocious expression, hosted by the independent poetry publishers.
As the coffee runs out and as Phreddy's words still echo in my head (and still smolder next to me through the dozen printed pages of his [sic] published Chapbook (Estuaries) I come to some convoluted (and half-cocked) concretion of epiphany... or half-epiphany... coffee-deluded epiphany... I'm able to write about music because that's how these words, that I string and sew and saw through, off, and out onto the page, have always felt
weird droning noises modulated and reverberated
noise and bliss
sooth and spur
Writing has auto-tuned my horrible singing voice and perfected my ear for pitch - I'm some invincible, wait, no, brilliant...brilliant composer, here, when I'm making the music of an essay.
I only hope you've heard the melody. It's taxing to translate it, sometimes.
But the event last night blew me back down to these keys. It cleared away the slush on my windshield and I can see the flashing lights ahead again, coaxing me forth.
My head starts banging again and my fingers don't stop.
And, as of today, it's [sic]'s doing...
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