WHAT FOUL DUST FLOATED IN THE WAKE OF HIS DREAMS

Here, today, we return to the book of fusion. We return to Miles Davis and the words that he wrote on the mountainside—how they told of a world without skin, a world sun-bruised, its bedrock rippling in rhythmic, red beats. A world whose dirt is made from the juiced human collective!

We return not to reiterate these inborn certainties, but to examine how they distort with changing time and context. Perhaps they dilate beneath the microscope. Perhaps they wriggle. Perhaps they assume our future forms. This is the drama of analysis.

TEETH ARCHITECTURE PART TWO

(This is an expanded and heavily-altered version of an article originally published in the Reno News & Review.)

There are nights when you consider surgical attachment to your coat. Maybe you could replace one of your kidneys with a space heater too. Because there is no visible future in which you are taking off your coat. You know that Les Rallizes Denudes song, “Flames of Ice”? It knows where you are at. This weather only exists to make you more comfortable with death.

There are nights in which you shuffle into a basement to watch some goddamn bands play. Maybe one will have a guitar. Maybe they will play it and the whole audience will sail on an electric groove into the gelatinous center of the universal hivemind.

There’s no blood on the floor or anything at the Hen Den, a house and basement on Sinclair Street where the shadows grow, and all stains are the long-faded consequences of hardcore shows, but your concentration with regards to the cold and the remnants of somebody’s gum tissue have briefly obscured your surroundings, which reveal themselves in a real moment of reckoning.