the INLAID EAR

In a place where people expect their dreams to come true, I’m China street glucose, and you’re endless grass and a huge, flat moon. In plaster and wood on the other side, I’m the cardturner, and you’re writing in my sun room. In a Rocky Mountain city, Denver or Salt Lake, I’m naked in the street, and you’re gazing into a green valley from a peak. In the arms of my love, I’m gloriously broken, and you’re a nap to Fremont and back. In my favorite bakeries and places to hike I’m Nebraska, and you’re sprout palm welcome. In invitation, in difference, in membership, in suffering, I’m mother, diamonds, life, and you’re home. In this studio, part monster, I’m petite fours made into a city, and you’re silver curls like a crown. In wabi sabi dance party, I’m golden lush shrouded jewel, and you’re black lava blue water brown. In the most expensive, beautiful, confuzzled place on the planet, I’m $6 Great American, and you’re the same…. In a particular spot I’m ears like cabbage leav...

by Joakim Drescher Paul used to say—like if I suggested going up to the G sharp and ending the song there—never returning to D— he’d crash the cymbal and cry, “Bad thinking— let’s try it!” One advantage of our band aligning itself with Dadaism was how experiments tended to stick around, fermenting into pearlescent, ginger liquor that could thrill or sicken audiences. My squeezebox case is closed these days, and my creative output picked into friendly, nit-free execution. It’s been years since I grabbed a trout and whacked it against piano keys in passions of Art. The cleaning staff hasn’t minded, it seems, the less explosive expression of my most dissonant, fishy notions.