Born of the Garden

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8 Plays
False Paul
Very Hi-Fi Devices (by White York)

A cover on our album. It was written by another Buffalonian band who I’d first heard at their final show. I learned the song from a 7” I’d bought after their set. That was at least 7 years ago, and I don’t listen to the single that often, so the beginning chords, vocal melodies, etc, have changed because of little corruptions of memory. 

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Anonymous asked: How old are you?

I’m pretty new, but my occasional jadedness (or ennui, if you’ll let me be as accurate as I can be at the cost of my sounding more like a knob) might cause a person to believe otherwise. I’m twenty and two years, which sometimes feels like too many and sometimes too few years to be.

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Sex is a bridging of flesh —
your land to theirs
Linked economies of heat
Tectonic movement as
mantle is melt
Mutual moons that pull
just enough to prevent the 

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Matter Trying

Trying to engage the parts of
my brain
that amount to my soul.
Answer me,
Faith, augment my life,
incomplete as facts.
Return the flow!
The touch of belief!
Push me, intuitions,
into illusions of light believed.
Let me be borne into
action by the bed of 
my mind.
Make me my dreams.

Filed under poem poetry writing faith feeling fact

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Anonymous asked: What is your favorite and least favorite part about Buffalo? And can you answer in rhyme? The city is not down low - nor is it in my time.

I absolutely can, thank you for asking. I have a tendency to over-answer too, so more may follow.

There are whole blocks of shops closed
with some kind of brown paper
pasted to windows. Thus exposed,
maybe, is our old growth’s taper.
Pizzerias thrive, cheap chain cafes and dives
color broad streets with simple signs
showing owner’s name and what fare’s there to shorten our lives.
I imagine the slag-specked gravel under lines
of trains seen from Seneca’s west height
and the posed relics of production in that
pitted and weedy panorama. At night,
the heart’s cluster of towers glows diffusely through blind slats.
The wooden houses telescope
to such a length that their backs bow
like those of shovelers who cope
every winter with tons of Erie’s snow.
All the steel scrap and chip bags
that pepper like heaps’ garnishment
in the wake of spring, which lags
to reveal new and wetted tarnishment,
contribute to an ugliness,
that is at least the true face shown,
of a city that is less
kept for any trippers than its native own.

A syndrome is a poverty of counts —
graduates, people and dollar amounts.
I like that it isn’t an Emerald City —
it’s real — but I do not like the reality.

Filed under poem writing buffalo answer like