MOons,

I’m grooving so hard to this Tom Misch shit.  Full, 2 am jam.  Trying to write in the pockets of the groove.  I have headphones in so I’m not sure how much I’m creaking in this chair.  But, fuck the neighbors.  This isn’t a time for noise complaints.  This is a lockdown/house arrest style groove brought on by a day off and good skies and paint on the fingers. 

The police have better things to do with their time. Measure the distance between the homeless to make sure they’re adhering to the six-foot rule. Arrest offenders.  Throw them in cages where it’s impossible to be six feet away from another person.  Turn on a fan to drown out the sound of the coughing.

Enough of that. Back to the groove.  Back to the stumble step of the bass line.  Back to the orange desk and this string of lights making shapes out of the daffodils.  

If I can master this groove and write thing, I might be trouble.  If it translates, I’m going to be a problem for any literary-based establishment.   Imagine a text message that lands in a way that makes you wiggle in your seat.  A poem that makes the car run faster along the curves of a mountain road.  A story that gets an entire audience out of their chairs and covered in sweat.  I’m not sure people are ready for it.  Libraries will be burned.  Publishing houses bombed. 

People will come back from their lunch breaks with sore necks and melodious heartbeats.  They’ll never sleep to this stuff.  They’ll find themselves on the far side of their bedtime, wired like a neon synthesizer.   The hairs on the back of their neck at full draw.  

When they’re done reading they’ll go directly into the dream world.  Lucid and fearless.  A new realm to explore.  An extra eight hours added to the strange landscape of consciousness.  

Part of me wants to sit here and let the music have its way with me.  My fingers will do what they will. The violins have taken my brain so I cannot be punished for anything that amasses on this page.  Complete state of enthusiasm.  Inspired by the good gods of vibration.  

I wonder if my neck will hold up.  It’s more than vertebrae.  A full torso convulsion, on-time.  A time that bends and twists according to the composition. A time made of al-dente spaghetti noodles in zero gravity.  

Really, I don’t know what any of that means.  All I was trying to say was that I’m writing and dancing at the same time.  It’s a brilliant feeling, like playing the piano with big speakers aimed off a cliff into a glorious canyon.  

Until next time, keep the speakers aimed at my head,

WoLf