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Skip Fox
Birds alphabets dawns linguistics Brautigan suicide travel obscure
gods certain birds in certain pockets or hiding in the depths of a
piece
on spelling
using the entire the alphabet (and why not?, hardly anybody else is
using it) while
waiting for a passenger pigeon to return my notion of sight, bird torn
from cortex,
but all I get are evening doves, disguised as blessing. If I put a
gray
shed over there
and told you Brautigan wrote this, that I found it under a falls that
looked like a
tall-legged drink, you might believe me. If I put it aside and found
it
in ten years,
I might believe myself, but who the hell's going to be alive in ten
years to even
ponder suicide, or deeply tucked inside Alzheimer's like a sheathe, or
a
pelt. Or
like the Synthesizer Beehive I created yesterday out of a real beehive
with literal
bees, pick ups (lazars attached to ears) on each cubic centimeter, each
a different
note and each quadrant of 64 a different tone, scales, architecture of
waves, roots
and branches in and through the mix performing random and esoteric
operations
(Our motto: No Function is Peripheral) like the modulation calibrator
of
the Dream
Arpeggiator I invented with Kyle last week, the result might be
something like
we never expected but knew all along, the hive a home to a
fully-operational
metaphor for the orphaned homunculus or the mindblindness of a spell
amid
wondrously intelligent attenuations of melodic lines, themselves, notes
like
extinction migrations woven into sonatas of oblivion. What nodes of
existence to
cover, days of flight. Brautigan had it right. Watch the birds.
Words
create the
alphabet. Climb mountain to shortstop. Blow your brains out. Keep it
movin'.
Copyright © Skip Fox
