Four-dollar tripod he ‘s funny with winning looks tall wide panel of knobs he sits on an amp which makes a hum ever so slight and comforting crucifix and bathing suit babe on his arm the knobs get going sinister twang a little unease a touch of evil which gets exciting green lights flash the sound undulates subtly now there are red lights it’s a busy street intersection he steps on a pedal which looks like a black key among wood like ivories and there are whistles

 

An aerial attack of fighter planes over Georgia plains tobacco smoke in the air it gets airier and spacey with drops of quiet silence cicadas whisper to crickets it’s as civil as a cricket game when they break for tea the sound gets heavy and difficult a haze that won’t let up in humid weather but there’s a break like floral lightning in the air

 

The Garden of Gethsemene grand in an Israel morning a gold cross glistens in the sunrise you can hear it it sparkles so loud a foamy surf rides in from Galilee footprints swirling in the surface it’s so peaceful with a weird funk blast getting almost warlike but falling short as cicadas return at the end of summer

 

I breathe deep as in a cloudburst busting my balloon I’m in a free fall in autumn air as high as eagles