voice

The bass line seems to stray a little from step to step, the moment and the great ascent, a bare bulb and that spiral of smoke. A pause for old applause, then the rhythm takes a ride, from the haunted electronic ephemera to the blood and viscera and the ship with black sails. The symphonic rumble roll spread all around the orchestra, the gamelan musculoskeletal rattle of the multitude becoming one. The tunes slide around the timeline, the styles and trends and one hit dead ends, the oracle of the songs on shuffle. The wind reaches in through the window screen. I clear my throat as if I’m about to try my voice.

The bedroom window is always open. The bathroom light is always on. The weirdness of this winter, the change from major to minor and such. This toss and tumble of the fool’s journey, this fall and stumble as the slapstick sticks to beatings, the bump and grind to bump and bruise as the clock runs out. All that want and wait, the hole in the ground, the hinge on the gait. The words work the wound, empty pockets and restless hands. Somewhere between the song that’s on and the animals that scratch and gnaw, this signal stuck on send.

I’m a simple instrument, I’m just always out of tune. I’m a typical conspiracy, just another crime without a clue. Somewhere between stray and beggar, somewhere before tomorrow, this place past yesterday. Bad sneaks and the shuffle off to buff, the moon melting to the medicine dance. The breath persists in the rough and tangle. The breathing the stitching of the same old on and on. The breathing a painting made of spark and pheromone, the body always a turning of the burn. It isn’t my throat, or even the hungry kisses yours enjoins. It isn’t my breath, or not mine in the way the meaning mostly goes. All the same, it’s my voice playing in the end.