House of Disorder

Edition of 100. From Fused Arrow Records: What would music say if it musicked about itself? Jukebox got warped but records are fine.Voice box grew coarse, textured with brine. “Loose seal!” I looked as good as the waitress. The jukebox unplugged itself. I fed a curved coin to a smiling slot. “Lucille!” Both Dylan’s and Lennon’s toes went up in their boots when they heard that one. Formed bands. Bands get stolen, lured to the bigger gigs. New bands form. Auditions skip conversation. If it works, it’s a go. Leave good and bad in the last century. What if I told you a band is a solo act? What if I told you we’re all one? You knew that already, duh. Is there anything I could say that would change us? Change anything? When the barman asks, “What’s your poison?” he’s not exaggerating. “What’s your cure?” I asked. “You’re well-preserved,” he observed. “You tell me.” “Can I use this space during the day for a chess camp?” I asked him. Little Richard finished playing. “Great idea,” the barman said. Wait, am I the jukebox? Lou Reed said he was receiving songs like a radio at all times. “Black Light, Black Heat” greeted our first chess meet. “Turn it down so the kids can concentrate,” demanded my kids’ teammates’ square parents. The jukebox reduced its rock to a whisper, revealing my snores. If this was the last verse I ever wrote, I would want it to be of use like a leather coat or measured rope. Is Brooklyn in the house band? — MC Paul Barman, January 2023