Creative/Innovation
I am thankful for the hidden brilliances in our daily lives, things we can all share, but are unfortunately more difficult to come by within the “developing world.” I’m thankful for these things, which I take for granted each day: roads, heat & hot water, food, clothes…
The Pixies owe us nothing. The elder siblings of our alt-rock post-punk revolution, we look to them, yearning for the brilliance of the late-80s surge of misfits, outcasts, and town criers who led us away from stadium rock and tight pants and towards the emotional sleeves of wheat paste, second-hand duds, and endless cigarette monologues. Their mix of mind-opening lyrics and whine-high instrumentation was the minstrel music, the bang anthems, for a few generations of college-smarty-pants who sought a less than hardcore way to be edgier than the mainstream lives they would soon live themselves.
The skies are starting to show the thunderstorm line is soon to arrive. High wispy clouds pull thinner, fail. Low, there, a mass of gray stone seep slow from behind tall oaks. 8:26
The low thunder rolls. Deep rumbles muted by the distance, growing bolder. 8:29
First lightening. Slight thread taught, pinned from cloud bellies, then cut free. 8:31
Day etched lines, marks, pins, float.
Dusk lit alphabets, numerals, tones.
If I lift my lids to see you,
they’ll glare,
burst
and be lost.
This is where you sat, you ate.
Your lips on this glass, the chair dimpled from your warmth.
All the lights in heaven,
I’ll take yours back.
Kim Deal can see the world in a cold clarity that would make most mad; a ramble pile, a mess, a happenstance, and thrives amidst the foibles by generating her own upward forward lift thrust. Bulldozing through the trials there’s no BS…
The pre-roll of blues music, meant to set a tone, could’ve been the foreboding instruct, a tell, of the bare-essential instrumentation of the PJ Harvey/John Parish set and band.
Earth, flat slides featherblown across the milkyway.
My dayfeet press flip inches from your nightslippers.
Pliant, we’re all tossed echoes.
Touch petal yearns touching more.
Lacely ode tone fingerworn sewn.
Backside runt dyes the ribfolds.
Cold stunts the color & cracks the mold.
August sold July to dime the dozen.
Magnolia bees put buns in the oven.
Slow lip blueberry napkin cakes.
Dighound plines a scrapbird snake.