Concrete and crickets. Can you feel that cool summer’s night air?
Intro – Dogs Barking Interior
- American Indian Federation Drum Circle
- RISD Museum
- Bella the Cat
- Pouring Wine
- Suburban Night
- More RISD Museum
Closing – Grocery Checkout
Call to the heavens young one. Now is the time for giving, and they have given you the blood and the bones, and the power to lament in the hollow catacombs of our collective soul. Speak not, not because it is impolite, but because they are listening – the walls, the clack of heels, and silent photos of young girls with bloodied noses, are all keeping a close ear.
Unreal chambers await you. Unreal in that they have windows made of grass and the hands of the men are made of stone. A bell purrs like a cat and pours its sound like wine over the faces of the faithful and the grass.
Be strong young one.
Take a look at the stars beneath your feet and feel the rumble of steel on your tongue, the crickets twist in the heat. It is good. Is it not?
The birds await. Steam slides from their beaks and into our souls.
And never return.
Clap. This is a new syllable,
clay, ribbonlike, pounded
by hand and tongue.
Strike skin, beat foot
on drum or tile floor.
Frame the noise. Look at it
from far away and cover it with your thumb.
Sit down loudly to see if it shakes.
Look for a long long time.
An instant take a long time.
What is one hand clapping?
How many frame per second goes real time?
How much time does it take me to think?
Do two hands at the same time?
Stop thinking. Be distracted.
Think of words you already know.
Think of words that start with p.
pet. pour. perseid. perambulate.
A cricket knows two words.
Or two syllables. Two more than me.
The road knows nothing.
Nothing I know.
Refrain. Sing cricket songs.
Drip water drops.
Say out new wrongs.
Clap clean stops.