August 10, 2:14 AM
When I fall asleep, someone is frying pancakes
Japanese-style on the portable grill, haze of oil
heavy, so that breathing and eating are the same,
like the inseparable coming to and escaping
cities at night, the feedback of club monitors
and engine drone, tape hiss to internal mutter,
muddy low-end, one-over-F garble in transition
a screamo cover of Run Run Run—nobody feels
that the two together are a comprehensive whole.
Nobody is hungry. No one even wants to eat.
August 13-14, 8 PM – 11:30 PM
We drudge diminished chords into Dayton’s mud,
and now the splashes people make there—
dewy footfalls—
that’s us.
August 15, 2:00 AM
Cancellation greets us in Memphis,
we reboard. Django solves the frost
from his hair and muddles trichocereus
into water with the handle of a knife.
A tenth-dimensional conversation
with Lady Salvia about our new name.
Teeth grinding like a spurred marble mill.
When he is unconscious, I find a scrawl
on his arm: Morquan, King of Japan.
August 29, 6:16 AM and later
Driving behind the Bridal Veil Falls at dawn,
we regulate. Calm and stealth settle in with
the smell of damp and saltpeter from the walls
and we wonder if the music could carry itself.