When they realize that times and morality have changed, and this time NOT in their favour, they become afraid, like small children who start to scream because their mother says “No,” although they are very well able to express themselves. They become ultraparanoid, in need of extreme polarities, a black and white way of regarding the world. And there is violence and death, as always in times of change.Carl Abrahamsson, 1989
W-R-O-N-G is a sound. Go ahead and make it, SoundMaker. W-R -- do you feel the gravel in your chest? Vibration? O-N -- almost an OHMMMMM, almost prayer, right? R-I-G-H-T is a sound. Go ahead and make it, SoundMaker. Different, eh? Frequency rests someplace else -- R-H-I, closer to my head. Distant. BRI-ght. Now say P-O-O-P! Or L-O-V-E. OR... SoundMaker, SOUND! Stop thinking letters. G-OH into the FEE-lds and FO-wrists and BRIE-thhhh! Sound FRE-eee to LoverSound. I'll be waiting to SOW-nd with you.
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God keeps me alive because I have questions for “after.” Serious questions. Questions I know he can’t answer. Like: Why is my nose crooked? Really? You couldn’t give me something straight? Anything STRAIGHT? And why not save us from ALL of the Falwell’s — let’s go further — all fundamentalists? (If you say Free Will I swear to you I’ll throw Crohn’s Disease in your face. Free Will. Shit.) They’re ruining the world and my upstanding view of pool boys. Please! And as long as we’re here, not that I’m complaining, — I’m totally cool in that department — but how come skinny-skater Bodie was given that dick? Can you just answer me that? Was it a reward? Maybe recognition for his Exceptional Contribution to Human Progress? I’m sure he’s saved hoards with his Board — it all seems just a little… peculiar. More: Did you have to let America have the nukes? You knew what we’d do, and there were Canadians nearby. And why did you let Republicans happen? Why are people in Bakersfield so proud? Henry Fonda for On Golden Pond? (Free Will, again, right?) And there’s this skater named Bodie, maybe I mentioned him? Why? Just why? See you in a bit.
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He’s a poster. He posed for it, flexed. Baseball player who’s won — wife, kid, God, arms. Good. Yes. I wish him well... and then plod up my empty street soaked in past and full of dark. The house is on the right. A light is on. He waits for me. Posters aren’t made of me. My triceps don’t act like that. Fans? No. My shy love and this quiet plot, beautiful, mine and silent and home. I’ll choose mine every time.
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I didn’t know when I was crying this song into my 1982 Cheerios that I would one day hear Abba transformed into such beauty — and cry into my high-fibre cereal.
Is there a trick, some magical flick, to that condo way up high? A wave of the hand that clears streets to sand for more than a moment by? Maybe a way (I'm afraid to say) to skip this world and my shame? To live where I'm rich, escape this poor niche, trade up to long-sought-for fame? Yes. A warning: People starved for that condo. And your rich-world, buddy? It’s all paid for with blood. (Fuck. Rhyming seems so stupid now.)
In old tales, men entered the forest alone, cut their own path through darkness. No guide but belief. No ancestry but thought, a word -- walk -- as thorns became home and light, theirs.