multitrack mandolins, nylon guitars,  and percusion.

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from Scott~

The Bull

The bull doesn’t give a shit,
it’s coming when it wants to come
like thunder over the trees
into the middle of everything
like a stick planted in the ground,
terrorizing the sod, ready for one thing
that no one else is ready for,
roaring by proxy into place.

I’ve hands like that
when the cuts don’t matter,
when a bone is just a thing that hasn’t
broken, when brittle fact
meets brittle fact but isn’t true yet.

Standing broadside again,
what matters first
is that the truth came plain:
For it or not,
it came so as I said it would:
Better bull, better bull, better.

from Scott~

The Fan

1

The fan rose up

to blow the first wind

through the tree tops.

What blew? And what wing?

And how has the morning

drifted?

What tongue flew?

What voice shook?

To have known everything?

I am only drifting

down a long jetty

to rise above a deep water.

not to know my own intention,

like a cannonball convinced

it’s a frog sprung for joy to some far lily pad.

2Give all your best to the seed

and you’ll be reborn

one way or another.

In the trunk,

in the hollow core

of everything

give thanks

for the sand

and the ether.

3

Gentlemen, escort the moon

into good graces, she is like the sun

only smaller and she waves a great fan

of inspiration at our brows.

Tardy Spring rains

traverse the dirt

into new motives,

its colors spackle my cheeks.

I am with the moon

in all my plotting,

breaking ground for new promises

on credit from her stores.

My shadow has grown with her favor.

4

All for you, all for you, my darling,

it all cries out, my darling,

it all cries into a kerchief,

my darling moon for you.

Pull tide to shake the breezes free,

retouch the sky with tissue, make that sound

as long a shush as beaches

breaking the urgent press

of morning.

I am here to touch the vast beyond with my breath:

whooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh………….