I Cast My Own Death Maskthis morning and every morning until I finally get it right. Amidst the prisons of thought and action there is little left to do but stir the embers from within until the spark spurts and fizzles and sends me headlong to the floor. Hard to convey such notions in three gnarled fingered chords but there is a song of sorts there. How to convey a kind of Sartrean quietism with a I-III-IV progression? How to thump out the music of the spheres on the rusty strings of a beat-up Stella? I asked the organ grinder on Lorimer Street if she knew. She opened her lips and the answers dripped down her chin down her neck down her knees. I heard no words, so undeterred was silence in its wake.
Copyright 2006 max jukes/brian edward hack. No quotation or reproduction of this material without express written permission of the author.