i rotate the cuffs of my heart through the paneled glass revolving doors of the world;; through all the plate glass panels playing with my perception. i pummel towards purer perception;;
i close again, a gift;; a loud musical reverie;; of soaring notes and blissful heels pounding the stage; of bedazzled bodysuits and prayers to release the oppressed – of pinks and purples, hues of ancient words and melodies laced on top of one another ;; of friendship and love and labored breathing and long black wigs and dancing in the wing-light of transfixed song wonder ;; of silliness and laughter — of fruition and togetherness — of joy on joy and the gratitude i have once again for the incredible gift of what creations life lets me be a part of
to more creation, more joy, more laughter
three years at the same seat, the same pearled purple and green smashes across the glass as the cars wheel by, the midnight glow of horns and guitar strings, some harmonica no one has learned how to stop playing, some amount of neon that always glows — bliss game and a furrow of brows getting older, getting wiser, getting deeper in the depth; in the art of the world flowing by — you tell us you’ve written something new, you curl your brilliance through a voice pipe, out through the parade of bones dancing in the right order, through the finger army of musical esplanade — we clap, it is the only feeble jungle we know how to enter — we know not how to trace the elegant animal from the line of brilliance to the fuse of firelight and kindling, we see only the flame, we eat only light – all evening long we soak in each other’s fever dreams ; we fill up each other’s sutures with imagined melodies ; a wish for an unending splash of fleeting light – the sparkle puddle electrified in the misty autumn pavement rain – the glow of 1am filling the gutters with a gulp of dreamtime nightflesh : sputters and splatters of all the condesencing condensation of the consideration of conspiracy, coalescence and consciousness;; we here keep hearing, keep listening, keep creating long after the night has turned to morning, long after the clock tells us to tuck in for the night; we here keep hearing each other; keep making in the morning light
to many more years of making, and letting the night turn to morning, and morning turn in to new dawns, new dreams, new songs
the mountain road pulled the sinews out of my bones, peeled back my winter scar tissue and bandaged up my bruised brains ; Vermont heralds like a parcel of parched mountains pointing the way towards the present : the prescience of the prescribed notion that I should piece together my inner peace and place it on the precipice of permanence // the open sky is a mural, a cotton-gauze remembrance of the moment just passing, just passing, just passed // my heart is a tower, escalating, forever young, forever soft marrow // the ancient rockface has a name I do not know, the supple leaves have secrets I cannot speak; the satin sound of the sun keeps surrounding me, I keep melting into the molten misuse of the midsummer heat ;; people in every direction pour patience back at me; purpose in every rock presses back through my toes :: the heat swelters around like a shelter , the bass pumps the through the thighs of the mountain – up the incline — we all camp on the side of the hill, sliding down in our little ramshackle tents, gravity and grace on either side holding us up straight (barely) — we do not all fall down the mountain – gravity maintains, physics maintains, our muscles grope the climb up and down like insects on a mound ;; small we are : the mountain pulls like a raptor, like a father, like a parapet – purposeful in its presence alone
glowing purple-indigo I thought for sure I’d remember everything. how it felt to be part of a collective, singing. how it felt to grow up with a piece of art wrapping around you – captive, surly, pillowing. what a magnificent world we live in that words can mean this much, that song and melody and creation can carry this many people towards the swell of the earth. that poetry can mean this much to people – the poetry of lyric, of song, of memory. and John Mayer said thank you to all those people who have told him his music has been the soundtrack of their life. and that miraculous thing – that creation – to give that to so many people, to have carried people up on the buoy of your words, of your songs. what a beautiful world, that we can create such understanding between ourselves. that we are a collective singing back the words that carry us up. that we glow in the satin-blue light. that madison square garden swells with the collective. with the worship of creation. with the post-post-modern gods and goddesses of creation that we lift up. that lift us up on the buoys of their creations. that creation pushes through them like a wave, and we sing it back. and the words curl around our spines like braces, form us like jagged corsets, teach us like sallow birds. that we all sing together, sway together, swell together. forget the reasoning, remember the radioactive radio-waves that cast personhood up on a wave of their own narrative. that we see each other in each other’s stories. in each other’s words. in each other’s songs. and that we sing back.
in celebration. in ecstasy. in gratitude. in creation.
in worship. of the many-fingered hands of creation, and the way they play.