My wife’s garden is full of wires
Tangled in an unholy mess, I’d say, just below the dirt.
And from there, they go every which way, to ostensible connections, further on: merging into trunks.
I’ve confronted her with this.
And she tells me that I’m crazy.
And I tell her that she’s lying , then she acts hurt.
Well, I know the drill. I know she’s not, but I know the drill
And so later, when we lay in the thin euphoria of resolution
And the day is over and things have gotten dark and still.
The moment she’s asleep I start listening harder,
And through the floor and down in the ground I can hear faint humming.
My wife’s garden is full of flowers
Painting innocent nonsense characters on the air
Y’know you read in places about men, whose wives lead double lives.
And the minute that their backs are turned,
These demure demoiselles are off to Vegas
And there, in silk stockings and stiletto heels,
They clench exorbitant cigars in their perfect teeth while they roll the bones
But that’s not what’s going on here
This is more subtle thing than the old angel/whore cliché.
And thus: more real and scary I think.
This is witchcraft refined with digital communication, herbal alchemy translated by a cunning interface
I’m not talking about anything as club-footed as a wet wire
Something precisely moist , I suspect.
A whole apothecary, glyphs and symbols, propagating in fiber optic bursts, distributed with perfect reliability
To the other serene witches patiently monitoring, what, for lack of a better term, I must call this network.
My wife’s garden is full of scents
Especially in the dark.
Jasmine pheromones emitted by pale, nearly colorless, blossoms
That unfold at sunset into shapes that remind of nothing if not satellite dishes.
And they turn as slowly as the hands of a clock and with equal precision
Aligning themselves with the moon
I stay out of my wife’s garden.
After all, it’s her affair.
Look at her now, asleep beside me.
The undisturbed sleep of the just.
And here’s a wreck like me
Feeling vaguely haunted, mind buzzing in sputters like a modem frantically trying to negotiate a baud rate
Who am I to judge such plans.
doc: vocal, synthesizers
Perry Emge: drums, recording, production