Half the World Away (Cover)

Can't Help Falling In Love (Cover)

Hey Ho, Nobody Home (Round)

Banjo Improv I'm On Fire

Voice notes

Wicked Game

Herding the cattle from a high pasture, lyrics from a poem by my grandmother. A work in progress. Xoe toys with audacity. Mira on guitar.

"Night Camp, 
Leaving the High Pasture

In a high mountain pasture
we lie drowned in the dark.
Above us, the aurora strikes its bitter arc,
and all night long, beneath the waters of the sky,
the cattle shift and toll their way—
land-wrecked monuments
moving among the rocks.

Buoyed and belled,
sounding their mindless matins,
they lurch and sway
through the perilous dim straits
of summer’s meadows into autumn’s frost.
The cattle drift in carillons of praise:
Tong-clang-clang… they toll the season’s knell
back to their own safe harbor.

Bell summons bell:
harbor is a bell,
each beast a chapel."

(Lorna Price, 1960s)

Night Camp, Leaving the High Pasture (edit 7)

Poetry written by pal Danny Sherrard. This isn't the final version. It's supposed to sound more like a mesmerizing unearthly galactic visitor learning to sing. You'll see.

Seraph Lullaby attempt 1

A very old song. Are you asleep on the grass yet?

Dreamcatcher



Some experimenting with spoken word:

In Which I Invoke the Word “Love” on More than One Occasion

Poetry is the art of essentials
and here I am
piling words upon words,
as if they collect on the ground
in fistfuls of dirt.

If you are a wood-wind, then I am a violin.
We are a broken consort.

In love, there is no stocking up for winter.
Burning calories like anything
I grew slim as a ferret,
trying to wend my way into your
most secret places.

Love in winter is white and scarlet,
tracking an elusive fox by flashes of its bloodied haunches.

Sometimes there is nothing to do
but read Neruda and puzzle
over the meanings of the word
“spectacle.”

***
After Twenty Love Poems
the pines make human shapes.
The pines are charades of you.
And now you play off the windows, splaying
in sunlight. Loving
every minute of exposure.
How can the highways twist
to reflect your every nuance?
Your very delicate shade of gray,
and your very harpsichord vibration?
You wore a blue shirt and it sung to be on you.

You are moving away now, moving far away,
backwards. You are falling
back into sleep.
I check your pulse to be sure
you still love me.
The waves come higher now, faster,
up to your chin, and you gasp.
Your breath explodes in my chest
like chrysanthemums.
Over and over left beached and restless,
climbing you as I would
the profile of the moon.
***

I’ll keep dogging the tangibility of words.
Cracking them open to find the marrow there
tasting it like honeysuckle,
like an addict,
building campfires and relishing the points
of red light.

When you are finally gone from me
I will wallow for a while,
as if this private spectacle
could teach the whole world survival.


In Which I Invoke the Word "Love" on More than One Occasion

Playing with dissonance, layering, and spoken word:

Night Taunter

You are the only person I’ve ever known 
to taunt the night, slinging
glass bottles to the ravine beside 
the gas station, offering baggies
to passersby with a precise tilt
of eye contact, hostess wrappers stuffing 
every pocket.

In hailing from a flat
land it is the sharp, sharp hills
that hurt the most.
Every night is a howling
as the spires grate across lines
of sight.

You reserve a special kind
of blindness for moonless 
times, pulling 
lighter tricks in buckled defiance. 

The jagged peaks are widowers’ fractured teeth,
in your fantasy they prick
at the sky until the skin of it indents,
daring it to spill
out its contents, all the little stars boiling
in the blackness;

the raw watcher and the landscape would be bathed in it.


Night Taunter (potentially unlistenable)

Shitty guitar and lyrics that are like a girl with a nosebleed eating peach gummy O's.

Collaborating with Mira on much less shitty guitar.

Xoe

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