FLIN VAN HEMMEN NIGHT!
FLIN (drums)/JON DELUCIA (soprano sax, sruti box)
+ MR. PATRICK OF TALKING STICK (storytelling and guzheng)
+ FLIN (drums)/TODD NEUFELD (guitar)/MYSTERY MAN (piano)
images by Richard Bergeron, text by Jonathan Vincent
Mein Trommel!! Mein Trommel!! EEEEEIIIINNNNNNN!!!! I hear the small boy falling from the stairs. I see his eyes gazing blindly into mine. We finish making love in the window far above him. Then you sit, wait, looking over your notes, grasp at your tie, slowly speak an imaginary list of your friends. I turn away to find the sardines, the mackerels, the kippers, the clams, the mollusks, the bivalves, the winkles, the food of the ancients, the trilobites, the cans to peel back and suck. You pack our flowers, placing each one in a small suit of armor.
The boy has come to his senses. He scrambles to the the entrance of a small cafe and glares inside, seeing darkly, yet inhaling the air as if his body could carry the entire room into his lungs, suspend it, and cough it out to clearly discern.
Beyond a long thin blue countertop with a hinged sectioned left open, a small flock of bears in flower print dresses vaguely float about three tables. They roll around their wide hips, waving their arms in conversation, and tilt their feet from side to side against the black floor. One carries a large rotting pineapple on top of its head and blankly fingers its scales while laughing at some dry wit. Another brings her paw to her teeth and yawns discreetly, faintly humming a familiar strain.
The boy jumps into this one’s arms and claws at her skin. Taken aback, she swallows him whole.
The light on the huge stones far outside the city goes grey as the sun fades and now we can hear the cars beyond the trees and we know we still time have time to get to the train. We go slowly down the boulders.
small rabbits
deep in your gut
crying for a dying season
another equinox of new aches
and folk songs in stoic form
with firm, dense distractions
and nothing else explodes
a great sigh.
It seems we have guests who sought the sight of seeing the things their souls were meant to see. our visionaries, literally v i s i o n a r i e s. Their ears reek of tunes, and vibrations, and sounds of all sorts of kinds. Look at them, just look at them :
