A most unusual feeling

Sailing on electric ribbons of sound
Dark wood grain and the soft hum of strung flourescent lights
An odd colored rug and a dimly lit garage

The dance beyond his limits
Blues for Allah
Free your mind, your ass will follow

Adventure holds fragrant memories
Bathing in smoke above a cedar-fire
Crude burning engines that barrelled across the old west for a campout
Lining a future cask with memories, sounds, and cascading quantum frequencies
Stopping at a motel and levy for three minutes of an uninterrupted smoke break
Neon signs buzz under the residual beating heart of a cancelled day
These sounds, these sonic ribbons of light.
The present time fleets this far past the breathing man.
Generations.
Though far dead now, remains a succor to a digital prisoner

The central scrutinizer
Eyes aren't meant for computer screens
Computers once worked with pencils, and would go home at night and eat dinner
Their tireless work carried meatbags to the moon
now replaced with copper wires and motherboards

Chipping white face paint
Gaunt eyes rounded in an egyptian curtain of charcoal
Slobbering poetry through meshed metal into the electrical signal
Transcribed into magnetic current, wound into a tape

Fractal gradients of color and sonic throbbing
It fills his ears, the magnetic tape swirling slowly on his lap,
sitting back in his listening chair with a long cord wrapped in his fingers
the unencumbered mind of a pre-internet being
intoxicated by the music..... just the music.
Smoke curling around the player's fingers, a stogie burns in his right hand resting on the chair
Two fingers harbor the dart while the thumb and subsequents a miller lite
Hi-fi muffs pressing long hair over his ears.


It is 1978, and this hypothetical has more than I'll ever know.
I sit beyond a line in the sands of time.
Criss cross apple-sauce.
The world wide web, being the line.
and I the ever aging glass eye.
Rock and roll, i am unfamiliar with.
A most unusual feeling it is.
When I hear the buzzing of strings ripped across 50 years prior.


I long for a time that breathes fewer breaths each day, in only the memory of the dying.
An albatross, carried around seaside mountains uncarved by railroads or highways.
Sailing hardships through broken harbours, out on the waves in the night.
A time where the magnetic tapes keep me in ignorance to that prism of consciousnes years beyond

In some other reality, i walk barefoot while my chest vibrates to the volume of a festival.
Where the colored lights aid the wisdom of the sage behind the analog microphone.
Where Neil rips across a distorted signal, and communicates a timeless philosophy.
Where Denver was a place and a person.
Where Jerry whisps a swan song.
Where the band slow-jams in a pulsing guitar solo
My brain bending so hard on acid that the music alone fastens me to the earth.
I find myself imagining this place of constant sunset in my mind.
Where music is religion.
Where drums make us dance.
Where synthesizers breathe.
Where soloists are prophets.
Where someone else is the cursed one...
who must partake of this music, in a one and zero digital mimicry of art...
rather than I.








https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7mnZYv1NQ7Tuj2IY290YUy?si=wLJ_M5luRzW2-tVRN07bGQ