AUDIO
musical analogs experimental pop outfit The Polyphonic Spree casting rainbowous bodies across home wooden green screens. awe full beauty, cacophonous flock squawks melodiously the forest song. thinking of abstract, cymbalic taps, floral petaling steel guitar strings, fauna working the pedals, the momentous sparkled sky, hidden in swaggering green is listening. brightening leaves, grip climbing rhythm eat with zygodactyl feet. blending, pieces above tropical biomes, not better than scavenging ground, a dove, there is no flood. yet. lingering twangs couple piano strings under felt, steel, and after noon rain, pounding, harmonizing with shells cracking and sonic dancing. narrow pointed appendages embellishing air waves, peaking speed and maneuver ably. feeding mates flit at wing’s length in flocks. nonmigrant mostly, few nomadic, or quartered—wild extinction—while meaning in these tropically and content. cause many’ve been beguiled in to entrapments, to shoppers with bruised legs, missing scales, closed rings around ankles, and remarkably able to mimic human sounds. they music we. shrinking green screens, too, the 25 piece musical acts’ habitat attacked, acoustics muted by twisted wire and cracking tree bones, to uniformity in ordered things exasperated by smoothed rock as root roofs, leading scarcer to seeds, we owe this disappearing act. nothing here to crack and eat so these powerful bills have only expelling air across bifurcated tracheas to do. so the singing goes, on and song. when the light comes today I’ll show my face. It’s the reason it keeps me strong.1
1 The Polyphonic Spree. “Section 17 (Suitcase Calling).” Together We’re Heavy. 2004. MP3. “Psittaciformes” is best experienced if read while listening to this song. Start the album on this track, number 7, and let it play on if you take more than 8:48.
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for Gabe Gudding
to you, and you, river, two coated friend, impeccably able to affect landscape, I lower my glass, to fill, with what life flows through, and swallow, to. you, well aquatic adaptations, considered fish by catholic dietary law, at the Kankakee and Des Plaines’ confluence, running over silt over loam over stones, flow slow, er, around. every mouth wearing civilization’s excretions stoically, in oceans and mountains, simultaneously, pains developing, sorry. lips behind gnawing incisors, ears, and nose valves closed, nictitating membrane a submarine window sees protecting from land predating lodge entrance holes. the present only exists for it, not the shadowy past nor the future’s cast (the foremost in peril; the former clear, drinkable; the latter unknown, but could be, habitable, or, un, well, not) the kit, the mature rodent, and they who are nearing the end of the river, only separated by shadows, not through reality. lodge making water shallows of valley, moat teeming with lives, congratulations on being here. in subtle conflict with ground if “preserve” is in use, I, sinew of this life system, thank you. success, fully removing, with silt, upstream where in seeped, organochlorides, organophosphates, carbamates, pyrethroids, and neonicotinoids, linked with earth think; but over silt bonds dissipate, and macroscopic debris can’t persist. drink to everything, and let the lower levels of TDS cleanse as that with less dissolved solids has higher absorption capacities, drink to the affable, the native word for you. nothing was, nothing will be, everything has reality and presence.1
1 Hesse, Hermann. Siddartha. Clayton, DE: Prestwick House Literary Touchstone, 2005. Print.
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native ranges, Canada to Venezuela and once the Illinois River didn’t flow backwards, spattered along road sides, fur sputtered, down, road sign splicers. hello dear, you don’t have, to run. hello, don’t you have to run? no, deer. flashes of white, the ground facing tail side perks, signaling danger, maybe his sounds mean safety, tails drop and hang with gravity. stopping, they understand, my brain, understands. below trees we stare, five of them, antler free, febuary, by may males will grow new velvet covered bone branches. maybe we’ll again, meet. their being condensed to these 439 acres, living in submission to who they could rip apart must not be human. I don’t have antlers. dear sam, I won’t run, thanks. should run from except your sounds shows standing we can be, close, beings being, co. like we dragged the sea away together and started breathing, separate being, billion some revolutions ago treeting this carbon mass spinning. dear, I remember being, the sea, and drying. we did. we are. maybe we future were. we are, beings, fine, when all isn’t what’s wanted and all that’s wanted is to be. I remember, I hear, your incomprehensible utterance, you are, tells me I’m safely, being, still. thanks.
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Moschidae*
well adapted leaps locomoting barrel bushes fright end in flight dewclaw stabilizes forested hills successfully. sometimes adopted into Cervidae family, a predecessor, really. between genitals and umbilicus attracts mates sought to attract mates. dodging be trees tween leaves dark mottled with gray brown slicing for 5000 years small, like a doe, smaller though. sharing common 2600 to 3600 meter elevated latrines from which are stalked and preyed, hidden in leaves. spatially wrestled leaves behind running from which doesn’t chase might make trips. believe these sell at JC—glassy genies, bringing sex. snare, discard unwanted (women and children), sought males attract mates attracted by these mountainous pheromones, extracted in grams, the moans, bone to boned bonding, like attr att acting other animals. there were no laws, now are, but one’s dear attraction to dick sweat equivalents still isn’t judged, unfortunately. brown waxy substance can be from living but the dead are more malleable, will fit in and between the around of every. from quadruped crotches bipeds grow in desire. weird, like syphilis, siphoned from silent dead musky stuff.
*there exist seven distinct species within the family Moschidae, or, Musk Deer, all of which are listed as “endangered” by the IUCN.
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stories, suspended in air, catching dreams, myth combing culture’s or their bristly hair. pray at night. preys incessantly; sometimes preying is eight standing, waiting. pray god subdues your irrational fears. in two parts: cephalothorax—the myth, metanarrative, folklore, mythos, intentional translation error, or unintentional translation from non-human language error; and abdomen—the meaning of words and the actions spurred, disciples, proselytizers, theocracies, faith based institutions and practices, zealots, “god’s army” (especially in cases like the Hutaree “militia”), or “jihadists” (especially as portrayed by Pat Robertson, Glen Beck, et al.). mouths flanked by venomous fangs and pedipalps for feeling and sperm injection, and the stories, and sleeplessness, sleep less thinking of eights. remotest, most venomous, with forward facing or pincer chelicerae attached to fused head and thorax along with pedipalps and other walking legs as myth defines the path of its militia, which makes silk to catch prey—causing night terrors, ironically. which raises the question of cause of death: was it the story or zealot? the fangs which spread the venom or the immobilizing web? and where in the twisted logic net can the translator fit? and the most elegant retwisted and dyed webs tied for formal occasions? the sleep still gets me, or how these repel it, and how varying species of fear mongers with an unable to spin real events into respect complex circulate it. taking old spoken myth and contracting scribes to spin them best turns prayers to oppressed. enveloped without light, scared of cephalothoraxing, their fangs and eights, I’ll do as you say making institutions thrive if you keep my power supply, I’ll keep your power supplied. was a story suspended in air, a dream catcher above our sleeping, until it was writ in menacing black ink.
