wrote a poem (in reply to the great singer songwriter Hawksley Workman who’s playing in #Saskatoon tonight)
Saskatoon I was born here but never lived there (left quickly on a 707) but obliged to print on application forms since– quite literally hundreds or possibly thousands there’s never enough room (especially in Japan) to write: b. Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Aug, 16 1970
Often, a poem comes out fully-formed, fiddling and remixing only dulls the knife, sometimes however, variations are eager to come out to shine light in another corner: Lonely, Joyful, Melancholy, Mysterious.
In this case, (my) familiar themes of un-confidential love letters on postcards mailed from foreign places and glanced by – or maybe sadly not glanced – by personnel along the way who (may) add their pathos to the journey.
One version of this (do you care to guess which?) will go on the reverse of the post box at Farmer Mac’s goat farm – Perhaps another painting will follow… and then a postcard a photograph of the painting mailed to the post box and so on. Always be remixing.
No pardons for redundancies, variations on a theme require riffs on the same blues.
Lansing Michigan, 1973 eating macaroni & cheese in a damp basement while adults whispered windows shivered radio crackled
and i wondered why the tornado was coming
and then my memory began
this is brother Bob’s (straight ahead) birthday March 1973 so i (front right) was 2.5 years old / for years i recalled this photo somehow and then going through my dear late Mom’s slides, found this and *knew it* instantly / that screened in porch, the sun, and everything.
this memory was described elsewhere in a riff…
“A brief stint in Lansing Michigan is where I remember my first thoughts, hunkered in the basement easting macaroni and cheese during a tornado, sitting in a big screened-in porch eating birthday cake with my glasses on.”
From Prague to Irkutsk to Montevideo, shortwave radios broadcast voices, numbers and patterns. Origins (generally) unknown beyond speculators and bureaucratic engineers from ousted fiefdoms gone stale.
They found no benefit or public belief for revealing secrets, so no one did… Speculations generally drift towards messages to embedded agents of nefarious organizations.
Simply put, clandestine instructions need sending.
However the keys to transmitters were lost, floppy disks written in COBOL became unavailable, and handlers dead or confused – hence a new system was needed.
As such, the Bilderburgers got the Bohemian Grove on a conference call, patched in the Illuminati from a bunker in Cuba and raised the spectre of the global transmission – a single word – to begin The Operations.
The line was silent for a moment, then a proper but thin and reedy voice asked, “but tell me then, how can we release that one word in a manner that everyone will read it?”
To which another dis-intermediated voice confidently said, “I have just the right idea.” #covfefe