the big woofer "parallel lover" chapter

[mnaz]

(latest manifestation of it, that is...). (and i'll try to read some of the other pieces here soon. computer time is limited for me these days).



In the beginning was rock, and vibrations of rock, time signature riddle, middle of infinity rumbling, the big dog woofer grumbling, rolling big bass lumbering. Yea verily, reverb careens from the valley of the shadow of dusk. Psalms of the heavy rain from walnut towers consumed in holy rolling boom, rattle the room, can’t place yourself in space, reformations on the face, of the deep. And the word was with dub, the monster massive slowed an octave low, black edge of sunshine, rootsman on a big beat earth, children lost in the desert, star-raked plains and galaxies contained in tiny pins on the firmament, painted on the black, and no sound found in the black except boom. How loud is a supernova? Hear it with your own eyes, enormity of the smallest force, the source, the feathery space where prophets flail, earthquakes and trembling if you will, angels and devils, soaring temples immortal, erode in tricks of rain.

Met a parallel lover. She didn’t matter, didn't do matter at all. Reached for her hand and space inverted with a pop. Heavens blew out, hurtled at terrible speed, into something like nothing, clutch onto something. Crucial mass is five atoms per meter, anything less and it runs to ether, anything more, the yo-yo sky. Blowout, or rubber band stars. Which came first? Bang, or implosion? Matter, or space? Dark matter or light? Warrior or the fight? We picture we at the center of things, and we are, the center of hurtling axes as it were, and smack in the middle, myths of the doldrums, sun kissed fronds, curious nectar.

In the beginning was no beginning, garden of a shade unknown, and universe was happy, no way to know. In the beginning was no time, until the big bang apple. And hands began to turn, winds hissed, deities and cosmic wreckage hurtled out, rock began to grind and magma rise, planets began to weather and spin myths of space, galactic spiral, and good and evil surfaced on gorgons in billowing skies spun into oceans, desolate mother sea, and crystal plumes on gothic crags, tatters and smithereens, a mountain dismantled one grain at a time, though calm from space, and you stare at the overpass, hope twinkle won't toss a lit cigarette.

The classics melt to echo, layer on layer, strata compressed, faulted, lifted, the sum of voices; verily, genius in that cannon fire ye classicals, but we got the soul food shimmy shake quake, and everyone got a come to Jesus moment. The room reeks of industrial revolution, bare lath and jagged plaster, muscular odor of tobacco and fish markets, a grimy ancient gumbo. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Starts with nothing, bad luck, bad moon, one note clipped, one full of flavor, and new constitutions shoot from a fret board. He can wail that twelve bar road, and blues fill in black corners of space. Some cats in Kingston J.A. found mother ocean too, heartbreak and vision, new religion, and one-drop roots got a three on it doing 4/4 time, guitars in a trance, bass player outta hand, stranger in strange land, drifting reverb, backwards blues.

Not sure what streets thought of their city. Not sure what Elvis thought of Vegas, air conditioner hum, can't listen to that, a jam is a jam, and we got licks already splitting town. Get the mic, hit record. He was no Memphis Slim but he dug the roots, and that record bumped full and slow, a world of junctions, rails and trails, rootless and heavy. Prospects are better on the far side, and guru is as restless as you. Sri Runovayonda. You had many conversations; he came down from the bench country for trail mix and a little hooch, and the answer remained the same. Echo envelops ridges in a slow ripple, inside out. Ride it like a train whistle out of Texas. No use for prospects but to outrun them.

[dadio]

Impressive prose.