Washington, D.C. [2000-Present]
Mike Fellows - acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bass guitar, powerbook, voice (from inside the powerbook: pianos, drums, bells, flutes)
The organ grinder rends indistinct your brethren to hamburger pulp. On the microlevel, inchoate mercy floods through your viscereal firehose. No Fault to no One. Through a disastrous miscalculation our collective history has completely inverted the Order of Letters as, for example, in Psalms where qir-bam ("their inward thoughts") becomes qib-ram ("their grave"). Years back I myself would be found in midst of this great disintegrative peril. Artificial speaker commandeers my thinking, is unrelenting helmsman. If the quiet chaperon didn't exist, it should be necessary to invent him and, inadvertently, I put it to you. The Art is in the Heart. Today, that great peril is pronounced "payroll". Or: Pearl. We're resurfaced whole, smooth and happy in the warm strands of saliva. Gurgling biscuits. Full of thanks that the gridwork of human synapses survives intact, that the individual revelation still comes. Flashlight is on his way. In my microbiology I will always see you on that mute, windy morning east of September, forging into the Atlantic Ocean in your special pajamas to retrieve my half-eaten sandwich, actually wresting it from the gulls, before the rank set in.