What's the point of instruments? Words are a sawed-off shotgun. - Radiohead
Baby boy, the hound of heaven bathed you, mussing your hair to permanent cowlick. Born with one eye asleep & one open makes you king in the realm of waking dreams. Uncelebrity, tempt the piano's many teeth like a lion tamer, head between great jaws. You never wanted your voice to be a beauteous thing but here you are, cracked tenor & falsetto, false positives & bewitching punchdrunk blue oratorios. Choirboy & the whole choir. Wearing the brave face. Reprimanding daylight. Talking down the panic. Unsure if you're sign or signified. Signing or signifying. Baby, you've got the post modern blues. Hell on earth, it's hell on earth. A car crash, a tesla coil, a hanging chad. In arpeggios. Is this the Lord's extended dance mix or just a skipping compact disc? Either way all your hymns snap electroconvulsive. Either way all these words are mammal noises. Either way, close your dream eye & thresh an stray cat rotgut rhythm from your six-string. Either way, this life's a no-code & you've always known it. So. When the cantankerous god of the stratosphere jostles the jet stream assume the crash position. A holy ghost will whisper pixels into your ear, a modem's stridulation & gurgle. Oh, demodulator, instigator, soothsayer. Fear not. This heat's also light. We will be shining when it swallows us.
-- John Paul Davis is a curator of Page Meets Stage. He was a founding member of Real Talk Avenue, and is the former editor of Bestiary Magazineand Em Literary. He currently lives in Brooklyn. His website is www.johnpauldavis.org