A Link


I feel for Don Draper because he is a prisoner of a world he has made a career of plasticizing; 
helping to create the land of misinformation he lives in with sheisty marketing ploys. 
Psychological legerdemain.

I suppose that’s why I lose myself so completely
when tiny dining rooms crowd up with banjos and dobros,
when the resonance of upright bass and four part harmonies
grab me up and lovingly hold me in the ecstasy of a genuine moment. 

There’s nothing fake about old hippies, wide awake at 3am,
playing Grateful Dead songs and pickin’ on bluegrass.

The whole heartedness with which I surrender feels as pure
and all-encompassing as hay dances during the harvest 
in every decade that precedes us.

It is 2013. It is 1973. It is 1863.

It is every time a set of fingers paused
to rest on frets before the next session of manic
movement gives birth to mountain melodies.

It is every time a young girl snuck over to take a seat near the musicians, grinning.
It is every time the music opened up to swallow a young girl whole.

This is indeed the annihilation of space.


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