I Make The Fog

Eleventeen years in a master tape box
Tracks of vocals
Tracks of drum
Tracks of feedback
Tracks of tears.
I’m pulling them out in splices
To build a picture.
A picture of a lake.
Every night
I come to the bank of the lake.
The bank of the lake
Is the bank of the fog.
The fog I am in.
There are no distances.
Space is all singular.
All of the round rocks
Under my bare feet
Are robin’s egg spotted blue
And woodgrain ribboned brown.
You can peel back the water edge
And turn the covers of the lake bed.
I lay down
I don’t need a melody here
To paint the lake edge in sound.
What is needed
Should be random
And appropriated
From the formerly meaningful.
I’ll run the sad falsetto backwards
Over epic soundtrack snaredrum
Struck dumb with tapespeed.
I make the fog
And the still lake bed
From these disembodied expressions
Of former feeling.
I make the fog
So that everything I do is clear
To me.