With lo-fi pre­ci­sion, songs of love.

hit­ting the sub­ways here

The fol­low­ing is a recently fin­ished sound col­lage; please enjoy the work of Amer­i­can land­scape painter Thomas Cole while listening.

Native naïve is an avant pop songstress like a lady gaga in the woods

but she’s an owl
singing two notes at the same time play­ing off each other like a train
horn going off into the dis­tance. She is lilies on the lake if they were
made out of pho­to­shop and oils. –Thomas B. Viola

SOUND IS IMAGE IMAGE IS WORD

1.Hollow hol­low log empty tree the crown encir­cles gold its equidis­tant sides are we; we wal­low below we wal­low below. How can that be we know the shape remains per­fectly on its own; we mark the world we mark the world. With cap­i­tals tie our strings we tie in bows we tie in bows cir­cle change to sphere. It floats in lumi­nes­cent atmosphere.

the crowd is gone
the crown stays on
remem­ber me when i’m gone

trou­ble trou­ble please bother me linger by my side but let them be it it’s not the world it’s not the world. You see five feet in front of you in par­rot red and emer­ald green we lead the doe to ver­dant green. Leather bound on our necks and in our hands we carve the crown to bind the bur­dened man drop grains of sand grains of sand.

illu­sions made by you
refract through me
with every move.

behind my
prisms eyes
rays shine
across pine
nee­dles in time

ring of jew­els watch the wands mov­ing slowly lighted spec­trum in the dis­tance color is invis­i­ble bright­ened world you dim and brown and even though I’ll always find you there.

2.“smile my dear we both escaped safely from here. let’s be glad we walked away unscathed.” before my eyes open i know i am awake again. the rock sinks down again. the river flows above and the sky opens up below. the world turns over like the earth in spring because ani­mals move on ani­mals move on ani­mals in heat move on.

we can count on the suns shine to light up your face again even if i am not there to count the hours in the day with you. i pour cement and mark the sun­dial on your lawn do you remem­ber the times? we never really had them and never will never had them never will all over again.

gar­den party again with the ferns, curl the years around your fin­gers smear the spoors on tea cakes. we all dress up to pass the time until the light falls in haze. water plants with spoon­fuls of cold tea this is all a joke really

get out the guns we’ll throw some clay in the air and hunt the hori­zons for game. she stands stalk still in the tall grass though this is not safari by default of being in new jer­sey. new jer­sey and the fool­hardy. ha try to focus with those cig­a­rettes on your jaw and the caw­ing of the crows to your back. those crows aren’t even crows. the crowd is gath­er­ing to watch how she stands stalk still and can you hit this? these clay games begin and is it dusk or dawn? tipsy on the foot­worn green in hang­ing tat­tered tides that come in unknow­ing waves and stamp­ing soiled feet. bare­foot to sur­round the cen­ter­piece but that will never be you. how did you get those rips lovely ladies and the pink sequins drib­bling down as a lit­tle girls col­lec­tion of bub­ble gum hard­ens then falls off the under­side of bed­side night­stands. inside that drawer the gilt bible pushed to the left cor­ner flipped upside down bind­ing inward bind­ing inward and the gold sides shin­ing upward into your eyes your eyes always show your eyes always show.
lovely ladies are most impor­tant at the knees all where the soil has crept up as a thin film and the silk and sequins meet. where have your shoes gone sweet ones? butt to the shoul­der and trig­ger stand­ing tall ani­mals move on ani­mals in heat move on you shoot enough you can’t miss you shoot enough you can’t miss…