think tank
Mar 19th, 2010 | By Drew Moss | Category: Poetry | 169 viewssomewhere between Rachmaninoff and the Raveonettes
I hear that sound you speak of with your jagged eloquence
our tapes co-mingle on the mixing board
a Sunday congregation, a constant cultivation
we eat your ghosts, drink your flowers
that sound is not yours or mine – it’s ours
precise breathing to the moment
shimmering guitar, vicious technique
fingerings strange, loud & unique
all at once, perfectly scared
we shook hands,
you stopped,
i stared.
a vortex of music – a beast with wings
the room falls silent as the spirit sings
the playback invites the rising
to my lightest buddha feelings
from that exalted think tank
i can finally hear & see things
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