Monday, April 6, 2015

outta date ONE

If these are potential stunning new topics astew, in the stir, a-ruminatin', bubblin' in majestic marinations, enter your guesses as to where we've been hanging out these past three weeks, roughly.  Make your entries in the comment section, being as specific as possible, Dear and Belovèd, Chronically Afflicted Readers!

1.  The top three most complete songs-with-lyrics, unavailable in listenable form, that accompanied our time away, had no discernible relationship to our "vacation spot," a term used entre guillemets because of the highest irony and because you cannot -- glad am i -- get a visual of my tired pseudo-academic visual of the hand meme.  No discernible relationship to my mind, but perhaps to yours, more keen with insight?

Acadian Driftwood -- The Band* $
Angel From Montgomery -- John Prine* (w/Bonnie Raitt)
Delta -- CSN*
Lookin' Out My Back Door -- CCR*
I'll Rise  --  Ben Harper*
Mr. Tambourine Man  --  Bob Dylan*
Pancho and Lefty  --  Townes Van Zandt*
I Am Not Waiting Anymore -- The Blind Boys of Alabama*

*With weird abruptions, eruptions, abortions, elisions, allusions, transliterations, and inexplicable circumlocutions; without the intended intrumentation, although we thought to achieve the playing of the fairly simple few in "I Am Not Waiting Anymore";  We also confused a cardiac alarm with a car alarm -- on an armored vehicle equipped with automatic weaponry.

$In a febrile reworking of two lyrics --

Fifteen under zero when the day became a threat
My clothes were wet and I was drenched to the bone
Been out ice fishing, too much repetition
Make a man wanna leave the only home he's known
Sailed out of the gulf headin' for Saint Pierre
Nothin' to declare
All we had was gone
Broke down along the coast
But what hurt the most
When the people there said
"You better keep movin' on"

Everlasting summer filled with ill-content
This government had us walkin' in chains
This isn't my turf
This ain't my season
Can't think of one good reason to remain
We worked in the sugar fields up from New Orleans
It was ever green up until the floods
You could call it an omen
Points ya where you're goin'
Set my compass north
I got winter in my blood

-- of which aberrant specifics I gladly no longer have recollection, the gulf's mild break to the coast, and the sugared fields breaking bad pointing the sweet way, in urinals and bedpans, our bedclothes wet and foul, I seemed always wet and drenched to the bone, at night taking up "Delta," but in waking fits of warmth, water running, smoothing our roughened legs, electrocution always a threat, monstrous white treaty-breakers (reflections of the high command of the motherland in long white billowing attending coats) directing, driving, monitoring, channeling, channel-blocking, calcium-channel-blocking the pressures of our waters, our various surges of wetnesses, of corporate bodies, of cerebration, of Baudelaire's Spleen, of kidneys and salty urines, of frothy spit, of one sticky, rivulet of blood....

oh, i quit.

© 2015 L. Ryan

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