No one believes in haunted houses anymore but I believe in haunted
houses just a little bit more than the unbelievers, after having lived within several, if only
inside the skull, the crackling brain-case, and the house-bones, as they
settle unsettlingly, in the merger meridian between seismic flow and
over-head gulf streams and low frequency nor'easters. There is a spectre
in spectralism and a prismatic fractal flaw splitting hairs without
identity. Without the words equal to sound and the sounds equal to words
there is the poem that rides shotgun over the carriage drawn into dawn by subtle
horses, nameless ones, I cannot know while being guided by them over paths of further
air, knowing them anyway, gusts of hydrogen-weighted gravity, a bustle between vibrating
strings, the bright glow in the punctum sordum, a train running in one ear & out the other.
The worlds within the
worlds inside the piano, the innenklavier, so called, the haunted house,
the inner everglades of a sensual buzz as of strings in distant hunters
of the stars drawing the mark.
Materials: grand piano, microphones,
fingers, feedback (an immaterial material if ever there was one), delay,
volume and pitch pedals. Did I miss anything? Please let me know.
Easter Sunday (4/21/2019).
https://jeffgburekprojects.bandcamp.com/album/haunted-houses
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