Best enjoyed
listening to the B-side of Tom Wait’s

Heart Attack and Vine

The needle pierces the old dusty vinyl; cue anticipation.
An amalgamation of artificial nostalgia and the feeling like
someone carved a six-inch valley in the middle of your skull.

A Gravelgarglingchainsmokeingdevil (God when he’s drunk)
spilling guts at thirty-three revolutions per minute.
And with each screaming note there is not violence, but the
sensational. Tell me about jersey girls and china white.
All I want to do is ride upfront. Light cigarette off of cigarette
and fail in attempts to pronounce the place names (shu•be•na•
cadie, Ko•uchi•bou•guac (when I was a kid I though it was Capital A)).

Maybe real music is found within silhouettes of silence. Standing
on the marsh flats gazing up at the abyss. The stars reign down
over the tide that is coming in the bay and the ice,
cracks and echoes with a natural reverb. I think
I am creature driven and derided by vanity.
Or maybe its just time to flip the record.