It's International Clash Day. Happy International Clash Day.
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Saving Austin and the world with polysynth, The Pool.
I am enjoying an early morning vigor that is rare for me when calendar driven forces pair the moment with a specific measurement of time and space whose namesake is Monday. Unsupervised sunbeams promise a cozy morning and lure me from the soft polyester safety and blunt grays of my lover’s hybrid vehicle. I stand in the dusty driveway, still in sneakers and the throes of a mixtape and cardio-induced flashback. I am here and this is now and I shall express my solidarity with an at times foul and unpredictable universe with a dark breath bestowed upon me by Saturday night’s pot of black beans.
This one is touching me in all of those electric spots that have never stopped arcing.
In Kingman, Arizona there is a man who looks much older than he is. His skin smells like beer and his clothes smell like the tar they treat railroad ties with. He picks a tiny music box up off a yellowed doily on a dresser and opens it. Sad music comes out and he smiles like he is happy.
If you say you love music but never ripped your shoe and hernia mesh spasming to Voice Farm, I don't believe you.