the INLAID EAR

[I revised/improved this one somewhat from the 30-year old original]   Ony Ody Firstly heard the one called Melo Speaks to Harmo clear as a bell-o: “Harmo, I need you. You can tell-o. I’m the tasted without the smell-o. Yes, the water, but no well-o. I’m the goods that will not sell-o. You must talk so I can yell, so Separate, we are doomed to hello.” Answering the one called Harmo Speaks to Melo smooth and warm-o: “I, the fury, but no storm-o; Aye, the bones—without the arm-o. Animals without the farm-o. Without you I have no form! Oh, You’re the bees, but I’m the swarm, so Conjoining states must be our norm, yo.” Melo sings sharp and Harmo hums hollow. Melo speaks bright and Harmo thrums mellow. Harmo flows blue while Melo shows yellow. Melo’s the peaches in Harmo’s Jello. Melo is famed more than Mel’s fellow. But Harmo leads for Melo to follow.

Musical Pins Which silly songs should I sing to my offspring? Which among the endless favorites do I frame in fleeting windows of cultural training, training, bo-baining—banana, fana fame? The Ministry of Silly Walks. Ning Nang Nong. Everything on YouTube is, in ways, the same. Which silly songs will my offspring sing to me? Will they loop It’s Peanut Butter Jelly Time behind some failed candidate’s concession speech? I dig it’s a catchy spoof, though I’m aging with the standards in my organ’s memory. To share is share enough! We have in common maps, spots, sing-alongs, phrenological peaks. The specific GIFs, luckily there, carry our closeness closer in true and skewed rhymes—so Sing the Beer Barrel Polka, that peppy air, or make something up over Scarborough Fair. Bill Griffith!

       "I'm a wearer of the dark. I have a dark suit." —Dave Thomas Despite the violent oscillation of our heads, some of us punks were able to half-wonder: what will become of us? That caricature motto, “No Future,” begs certain questions in the aftermaths. Crocus Behemoth blew our minds often, mad head warbling a la climaxing teen; and better than those sound-scrapes, his bitter perspective conveyed diagonally convinced us of our own foresight as punks. But bands split up. A crash time-stopped D. Boon. Pop culture punks bit the dust on drugs (yawn) while other artists coupled and had kids, went to sew the sutures of middle age… Crocus took up the accordion, whined on about himself, swimming past his art and the girlfriends that came and went with it. by Lauren Ari