“APPRECIATE” by Paul Corman-Roberts

“Upon Resurrection, My Father Contemplates the Mix Tape of his Past as if He Could Remember it as it Was” by Sommer Schafer

“Mixtape: the Nearness of You” by Tiffany Higgins

“A PLATYPUS CAN NEARLY SMELL ELECTRICITY. OF COURSE, IT’S NOT GOING TO BE EASY.” by Christine Choi

“Titles, Lyrics and Labels” by Matthew James DeCoster

“she & him” by Jill Tydor

“MIX TAPE FOR POPS” by Ariel Fintushel

“JOE HILL BY REBECCA BLACK” by Ariel Fintushel

“FAST HAPPY BIRD” by Ariel Fintushel

Watch the performances here.

BANG OUT Volume XV: “MIX TAPE” was held on Friday, March 23rd at Amnesia on Valencia Street in San Francisco.

Ah, the mix tape. Covert love declaration, nostalgic reminder, moment capturer, friendship solidifier… As always, we encouraged any and all interpretations of the theme, and were thrilled to present a brilliant line up of poetry, stories, multimedia performance and musical pieces that were inspired, either in form or content, by the lost (not yet!) art of the mix tape.

The reading featured fresh new work by local authors:

Sarah Fran Wisby
Christine Choi (with Javier Tous)
Tiffany Higgins
Ariel Fintushel
Paul Corman-Roberts
Matthew James DeCoster
Jill Tydor
Sommer Schafer

sarah fran wisby has a website! it’s (duh) www.sarahfranwisby.com, wherein you can read her blog and look at sexy and/or scary pictures of her depending on your perspective, or you can order a copy of her book viva loss. her recent voice projects include the invisible cities audio tour: the armada of golden dreams, and one loves only form/KPV radio on which you can hear her read from her new manuscript cream: an american girlhood.

Christine Choi is a poet and artist living in San Francisco. She passes time investigating matters of the heart, human-animal-machine relationships, and crafting text. She holds an MFA from the California College of the Arts, and her work’s appeared in Monday Night Lit, Paul Revere’s Horse, In Posse Review, or been performed at NOMA GALLERY, Soundwave Festival ((4)), POW!POW!POW! Action Art Festival, Little City Gardens, and Small Press Traffic’s annual Poet’s Theater extravaganza.

Javier Tous grew up in Puerto Rico, loving synth-pop and punk rock. Since 1995, he has worked relentlessly to help grow the burgeoning underground scene on the island, publishing fanzines, hosting radio programs, distributing records, DJing, organizing shows, and performing live. He currently resides in San Francisco, helping people and computers work together more seamlessly.

Christine and Javier almost met in the Caribbean…but didn’t. They quickly bonded over synth bands, brown lighters, electronics, free time, swear words, and an undying desire for the wellness and sanity of the human race as a whole.

Tiffany Higgins’ first book of poems is And Aeneas Stares Into Her Helmet (Carolina Wren Press 2009), winner of the 2008 Carolina Wren Poetry Prize, chosen by Evie Shockley. The book takes as its context our two wars in the Middle East and how we as citizens experience them variously—from blockage to apathy—and makes a space for mourning whom and what has been lost in the process. Recordings of her poems appear on From the Fishouse, an online archive of emerging poets (starting in April 2012). Living in Oakland, she is cowriting the documentary Duas Americas, set in the U.S. and Brazil. She blogs on environment, South America, and positive futures at (http://tifhiggins.blogspot.com/). You may read more at (http://www.tiffanyhiggins.com).

Ariel Fintushel is a Northern California poet who was raised by a nonfiction writer, a mime, and her ragtag friends.  She has a BA in Modern Literature from UC Santa Cruz and is currently pursuing her MFA in poetry at SF State.  She has recently been published in Transfer, Enizagam, and the 99% Poet’s Anthology, and is as interested in writing as she is in someday teaching it.

Paul Corman-Roberts writes the monthly column “Dispatches From Atlantis” for RedFez.net. He has two books coming out this year;  “Last Chance Ego Death”  a small chap of poems from Crisis Chronicles Press and his first collection of flash fiction from Tainted Coffee press entitled “Sometimes You Invent New Words For Old Losses.”  You’d think the titles of the books would be switched around but that’s how blurry the line between fiction and poetry has become these days.

Matthew James DeCoster has been published in sPARKLE & bLINK and fullofcrow.com. His short- story, “How Patrick Learned to Twirl” is being published by Harlot’s Sauce.  He’s featured at Quiet Lightning, Anger Management, Clattering Loom, InsideStorytime, Portuguese Artists Colony and Litquake. Matthew is a Production Assistant at Literary Death Match and served on the editorial staff of Fourteen Hills.  He is currently on the Litquake Planning Committee.

Jill Tydor is a recovering journalist and MFA Writing student at California College of the Arts. She originally hails from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, but finds the Bay Area has enough soul food to be called a second home.

Sommer Schafer is approaching her final year in the MFA program at San Francisco State University. She lives in San Rafael and is currently working on two collections of stories: My Father’s Memoirs, about a family coming to terms with its legacy of mental illness and the death of the father, and Hope, about the citizens of a small town in Alaska. You can read her first publication, “The Table,” forthcoming later this year in Barge Journal.

Paul Corman-Roberts

Sommer Schafer

Christine Choi with Javier Tous

Tiffany Higgins

Jill Tydor

Matthew James DeCoster

Ariel Fintushel

I was singing high and breathy in my lungs as I rounded the shortcut to the BART station, passing the silver painted house that used to feature a hand-painted sign offering shoe shines. Why that song in my head? It wasn’t the silver house reminding me of Warhol’s Factory reminding me of the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, that was too convoluted a path for my brain, jazzed up as it was, to travel. No, I had been searching for my lighter before I left the house, I had found it, it was a white lighter, the kind I still buy as a sort of homage to the 90’s and to Ginger, my first true love, who at one point believed white lighters had magical properties of butane regeneration, or at least she’d never witnessed one run out of juice. Now Ginger was at home recovering from a hospital stay and doing meditation and visualization focused on regenerating her liver, which was acutely failing her, for no reason anyone could discern, and I was on my way to meet a new friend I was taking to see Will Eno’s play, Flu Season.

I ran into an acquaintance on BART, a woman I admire deeply while knowing next to nothing about her life. “I saw on facebook that you got a new cat!” I exclaimed. “I’m playing a show tonight!” she exclaimed. We both mentally clicked the Like button on each other’s exclamations. And I should mention here that if you hear anything you like from me tonight, feel free to click the Like button in whatever way you see fit. You can shout out “Like!” or you can just make a gesture in the air, a thumbs up or a check mark, or whatever symbology grabs you in the moment.

I recently heard about a study in which they compared the amounts of dopamine created by actual human touch versus looking at someone’s facebook page, and in some cases there was no measurable difference. Also, at puppy school many years ago, the instructor told the class that if we didn’t want to use treats as rewards, we could get a clicker. After so many repetitions of eating a biscuit and hearing a click at the same time, a dog will perform a task just for the satisfaction of hearing the click. This seemed cruel to me so I never tried it, but I think at this point we can all pretty much agree it works.

When I got off the BART a street musician with a fiddle and a sign saying Iraq War Veteran Getting Back on my Feet was playing a song it took me a moment to recognize, he played it so dark and full of sorrow:

(sing snippet from To Know Him is to Love Him)

Like a lot of country songs, it’s supposedly about walking with Jesus in the afterlife but is really an outlet for Christian women to sing about obsessive longing and devastating lust. As I passed the veteran and turned onto Geary I got a text from my friend which said he was running a little late. The song that  lodged in my heart as it tipped into abjection was so predictable, I can’t bring myself to sing it for you, but you might as well know it was Etta James, Something’s Got A Hold On Me. Etta died this January but she lived long enough to hear Beyoncé sing At Last at Barack Obama’s inaugural party. Why didn’t they let Etta herself sing her signature song? She was too raunchy, too unpredictable, too real. The next time she ran into Beyoncé she threatened to whip her ass.

I had time to gather my wits about me while I waited outside the theater. The 60-something doorman/security guard came outside to smoke and flirt with me, and I felt some of my power returning. Then he went back inside and I read the magazine article I’d brought with me. The Prose Poem: A Sexy New Animal. I stepped forward to put out my cigarette and looked up from the page: my friend was standing right in front of me.

We went inside, took the elevator to the top floor where the theater was, and found our seats. Some prescient pre-show music was playing.

(sing snippet from Heartbreaker)

(sing snippet from Love Will Tear Us Apart Again)

I did what I always do when I hear that song, I overshared, telling him about my teenage cutting days, how I had carved the lyrics to that song into my thigh with a razor blade, how in certain light or on psychedelic drugs I can still see the faint scars in that soft pale flesh. He had nothing to say to that, absolutely nothing, for minutes on end.

Finally the play started. I was so conscious of his body next to mine, sitting up straight in his chair, so close I could smell the kale on his breath, while we watched this love story break apart into shambles in front of us that I wasn’t sure what I thought of the play as an event, which was at turns either slightly or abundantly being overacted by MFA students. The words and feelings behind the play moved me, though, and the music was good too:

(sing snippets from Crimson and Clover, Obstacle 2, and Dedicated to the One I Love)

Afterwards we were hungry and we went to Foley’s Irish House, which seemed quieter than usual, until we ordered and realized the band had been taking a break. When they started up again, we could not make ourselves heard without shouting so we gave up and watched a drunken birthday party unravel on the dance floor. It was Paula’s 21^st birthday, the singer told us as she dedicated the next song to her, but when we got a look at Paula, it was clear she’d been celebrating her 21^st birthday for a long, long time.

(and that’s where I have to end, in the interest of time)

Anger Management work
on the side
probably sounds weird.

We all grind
to obnoxious smothering
and being a big fan
of “being there.”
the whole act.

a team of drama queens
would put these people in their place.
Outsiders fight with everyone
so long as it isn’t unwieldy.

maybe we are snobs.
the noises!
oh my god the noises!
i tasted vomit that night

I had to feed cows
Every day.
twice a day.
for ten years.
one shouldn’t raise cows
in the snow
it feels inbred

you can move to a new scene
make your own.
don’t like a restaurant?
go to another
no hurt feelings
just slip in and out of things as you please
distracted by this unsettling
sense of disconnect

maybe from not talking to you
today i am insecure
think everyone is out to get me
I met Angie Dickinson at a party.
Police woman
told me you were seeing someone.
you don’t like monogamy

i was crying over stupid
song from band Aid
I suspect we fear the polemic.
Polyamory is not freedom.
a device.
for identity.
I am not anyone’s ten minute free pass
unacceptable you thought that about me.

too much baggage two
suitcases through a connecting flight
don’t scare me.
you say I wish you knew her
an accountant of all things.
You can multiply.
You multiplied.
I will let you go now.

Those early times were incredible, when I thought I had it figured out, God and salvation and all that, but still huge doubts that could be recompensed then by conversation with the campus minister or in Bible studies or with the religious professor. To think that there were people out there who actually had the answers, and I could have access to them during my search for the answers! And I could express doubts to them, and return rejuvenated, though perhaps not wholly. And then bring it to God in prayer, and sing His praises with drum beats and guitars and tambourine—all the stuff our parents hated, but if they’d only listened to the words, seen that a lot of it was taken word-for-word from the Bible. Still, even then, even amidst the pockets of Spirit-filled joy (which I now believe to be disjointed streams of serotonin or whatever other neurotransmitter brings those feelings of elation and purpose), I would surrender to an awful despair—feelings of worthlessness and meaninglessness and aloneness—that no one seemed to want to answer to. What if it wasn’t all real—what we sang about? And why was God so quiet?

So the years went by and the three of you were born and we moved a lot but tried to always stay in a church, and even then, I could almost make it all work. I could love those Christian rockers, Larry Norman and Randy Stonehill, and be the only one in the church to listen to them rock out; could feel ok about that. Would even find, every once in a while, someone to share it with, and your mother liked having people over, and I could tolerate it then, so she’d make her amazing dinners and light the candles on the table, and afterwards I’d get out the guitar and, yes, play the old Christian stuff, but also the other stuff, the Neil Young and Bob Dylan and America and Eagles; maybe one or two of my own songs that were horribly simple in comparison. Still, that religious world, no matter what you are, is terribly small. And let me be clear that I loved the secular music just for being great music way before I started questioning the existence of God or at least His presence in our lives, and began seeing way too much variety in life to warrant our One Way-ness, and also began feeling sunk and more sunk, and completely overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the crazy world. And there are names for these ways of feeling, the psychiatrists say, but it didn’t help me then and it doesn’t help me now.

It was hard for me to find people I could work with, and the situation was never quite good enough, hence the moves and all those schools you and Sunny and Alice went to. And the three of you, along for the ride because you didn’t have a choice, and me aware underneath it all that I was truly a failure of a father, but hating myself for thinking that and hating you for putting me into that position. Why couldn’t the three of you have just been there? Why always demanding, wanting, needing? And Sunny so impossible and coming to need those meds? So there was always the music. I began putting the guitar away because the site of it came to make me sick, but there were all the records that later became hundreds of CDs, because I’ve never had anything against modernization. The three of you sure could dance! I taught you how to blow the dust off the needle before putting on the record, and if you danced too hard the record would bounce. I can still see two-year-old Sunny bouncing in one place and you and Alice shaking your bodies with young child abandon. And your mother and I could dance right in there with you. We were probably the only ones in church who let you listen to Whitney Houston’s first album and Fleetwood Mac and the Rolling Stones and Springsteen and the Beatles and the Zombies and Cream and Melissa Etheridge. And sometimes, yes I know, I played the music too loudly as you were trying to sleep, and it would be one of my many selfish acts that were only meant to save me.

At the end, I listened to it all. All the good ones—Jennifer Warnes’ “Bernadette,” and the Zombies “She’s Not There,” and Walker Jr.’s “Shotgun,” and Larry Norman’s “Hymn”—and the new ones—Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and anything by Dougie Maclean and, yes, even that kid Eminem, and the new stuff from Dylan and Steely Dan. I got real heavy into gospel music sung by those male groups. I listened to it on the earphones that completely encapsulated my ears and my brain and my body, and I drank my alcohol, and I tuned everything else out. And I ended that way, and I think, somewhere, there might be a certain kind of peace to it, for even now, in this living day (no, I don’t desire it), there is someone somewhere listening to a song I also once listened to.

It’s warm, but it’s new.
It’s actually two tracks. Sort of
phasing out. Four synths.
You’ve made the mistake again.
Literally, my exact dream car.
Does the radio work? Tape deck?
Yes. The original radio works and
it’s a tape.

The engineer knows exactly what
to do. Remember last season
when he gifted you a tool for prying
clams apart?
The clam was already open—inside,
a dozen cigarette butts soaked in
rainwater. And you were (envisioning)
(fashioning) a strawberry heart.

You’re fired.

Are you trying to kill me? Or rob
me. Because clearly you’re not
my friend. You are elsewhere,
and have no idea.
The hills are on fire.
Two-oh-nine. That’s California,
south of here somewhere? Sitting
smugly on the only bench, too
cold to finish your cigarette.
Yes. Two-oh-nine is California. Keep guessing.

Draw a heart next to anything you
want (from the sushi menu)(from me).
I’ll help you navigate your ocean
research; no one’s keeping score. Here,
coupons – read the fine print! There
marsh birds, blinking. There stingrays, raising tails
from a near distance, poised
to kill.

(Juliet Schor, from her book Plenitude)

[Humming.]

“A major recent study by the International Union for the Conservation of Nature found that 38 percent of the 45,000 species they studied are currently threatened with extinction. A quarter of all wild mammals are at risk of disappearing. A U.S. report on birdlife released in 2009 found that a third of all bird species were already endangered, threatened, or in serious decline.” (Schor)

[Humming.]

“In addition to climate change, the main drivers of species decline are habitat loss, overexploitation (as in fishing), pollution, and alien species.” (Schor)

There ain’t no reason you and me should be alone tonight

Yeah baby, tonight yeah baby

But I got a reason that you should take me home tonight

I need someone that thinks its right when it’s so wrong

Tonight yeah baby, tonight yeah baby

Right on the limits where we know we both belong tonight (Lady Gaga, “The Edge of Glory”)

“Terrestrial species have declined by 33 percent, freshwater species by 35 percent, and marine species by 14 percent. These are unprecedented developments in human history and represent losses of incalculable value.” (Schor)

It’s hard to feel the rush

To push the dangerous

I’m gonna run right to

To the edge with you

Where we can both fall over in love (Lady Gaga)

“Anthropocentric valuations stress the role of species in ecosystem functioning, the loss of potential drugs and technological advances, and the benefits humans get from being able to see and interact with plants and animals.” (Schor)

I’m on the edge of glory

And I’m hangin’ on a moment of truth

I’m on the edge of glory

And I’m hangin’ on a moment with you

I’m on the edge

The edge, the edge, the edge

The edge, the edge, the edge

I’m on the edge of glory

And I’m hangin’ on a moment with you

“Worldviews that do not measure nature solely in terms of value to humans recognize the collapse of biodiversity as a profound loss on its own terms. Zebras, hippos, polar bears, elephants, lynxes, and many other wondrous creatures are in jeopardy.” (Schor)

Another shot before we kiss the other side tonight

Yeah baby, tonight yeah baby

Put on your shades ’cause we’ll be dancing in the flames tonight

Yeah baby, tonight yeah baby

It isn’t hell if everybody knows our name tonight

Alright!

Alright! (Lady Gaga)

In the Amazon, the Owl Butterfly—

Goodbye, goodbye!

In my dreams I hold you close to me.

So close that I pin your wings

To my chest. You try to flap free,

Oh dear, but I only hold you ever

More tightly.

It’s hard to feel the rush

To push the dangerous

I’m gonna run right to

To the edge with you

Where we can both fall over in love

I’m on the edge of glory

And I’m hangin’ on a moment of truth

I’m on the edge of glory

And I’m hangin’ on a moment with you (Lady Gaga)

Dear Owl Butterfly, pinned to my chest.

Your giant

Eye, always open, looks in

To me. You are a smear

Of yellow and black. You leave tracks

Across my nipples, as you soar

Across memory and dream.

Here I remain, grasp air,

Hold phantom antennae

To my skin, what used to sense.

I’m on the edge

The edge, the edge, the edge

The edge, the edge, the edge

I’m on the edge of glory

And I’m hangin’ on a moment with you

I’m on the edge with you (Lady Gaga)

Dear Owl Butterfly,

On the bus, children paste

Butterfly stickers to backpacks.

And whenever we need to speak

Of chrysalis, how form morphs,

Evolves into another, brighter,

We call on you. But you are gone,

Baby, gone, baby, gone.

GoogleEarth is our app,

And we use it to dart

In and out of tree trunks

In the specific jungle

Of our wishing. But you, you

Are without location.

(Next of kin, under the skin.)

Now we all are that.

I’m on the edge of glory

And I’m hangin’ on a moment of truth

A werewolf of London. London town, where it was a foggy day and the bridge over troubled water was falling, falling down.

And I wanted it to be April in Paris.  I love Paris in the springtime; I love Paris in the fall and moonlight in Vermont while falling in love again.  We were lawyers in love, love sweet love.  Love will keep us together, endless love.

But

Jolene,

I look at love from

both sides now.

You, you, you, only you.  Why can’t you give me the respect I’m entitled to?

You’re so vain.  Yet no one, no one, no one, baby can get in the way of what I feel for you.  You’re the one; you’re still the one!  You’re so good.  You’re so good. You’re so good.  BABY, you’re so good.

IF you put on a happy face, a funny face

not a face in the crowd, baby we couldn’t get much higher with high hopes, Bali high, high on a hill.  It calls to me, me and you and a dog named Blue…me and my shadow.

But I am, the blue dog now, running through streets with no names

Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I should

Knowing me, knowing you

looking at love from

both sides now.

If I were a lineman for the county, listening to Mexican radio, if I were a carpenter, if I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning; in the early morning rain, raindrops keep falling on my head.  “Here comes the rain again,” folks say.

Now it’s purple rain; it’s raining men.

Cool, cool water, creating our river deep, mountain high.

Hold me, our situation and, our troubled bridge.

Jolene, a sister of mercy

Don’t go. Stay. Rock me.  Help!

Yesterday, upstairs at Eric’s, he said, rumor has it…Johnny, are you queer?

“I am,” I said.

Jolene, I’m not just a page in your diary, a bad connection, reckless.  Breaking up is never easy.  Don’t think twice, I will always love you.

Me AND my shadow,

both sides now.

]]> http://bangoutsf.com/volume-xv-mix-tape/titles-lyrics-and-labels-by-matthew-james-decoster/feed 0 http://bangoutsf.com/volume-xv-mix-tape/she-him-by-jill-tydor http://bangoutsf.com/volume-xv-mix-tape/she-him-by-jill-tydor#comments Sat, 24 Mar 2012 02:25:46 +0000 admin http://bangoutsf.com/?p=1453 Track 1: “Ray of Light”

When they were young, they strung up two soup cans joined with string like they did in the movies. And she would whisper secrets into her end. And he would make up stories that grew in volume and ridicule. But all he ever heard was the soft rumble of her voice like rain on the rooftop. And all she ever could decipher was something about a blue goose named Dan. Later, they would purchase two flashlights and begin a nightly correspondence with rudimentary Morse code. She would nestle in bed and watch his messages beamed across her ceiling like falling stars shooting through the blackest parts of space. And he would wait by his window, letting her clicks write words made of light across his naked face.




Track 2: “The Space Between”

When they grew older, he would meet her in the park at the end of the block. And under a watery moon they would make plans for the future. They would go to the school with ivy that covered brick buildings like a downy newborn. And study romantic things like philosophy and art history. She would let her hair grow long and loose, that it would envelope her like a curtain while she read, a little private sanctuary of words and silence. He would write papers on an old typewriter found at a library rummage sale for five dollars, meteing out each letter with a heavy hand, letting the rhythm of metallic key strokes fill the space between them.




Track 3: “Going to the Chapel”

When he asked her to marry him, she picked up his hand and held it tight to her chest, letting it grow warm against her pink cotton blouse. She would find a dress made of baby blue lace, he a brown suit. And as they walked up the steps of the courthouse, he could hear her heels clicking against stone, echoing with each step. They would make promises of fidelity, longevity, honesty and passion. She would look into his eyes and remember the boy, the beacon of light. He would slip the ring on to her little finger thinking of the girl whispering to him in the dark.




Track 4: “Life in Technicolor”

When she felt the first kick, she decided to take up knitting. She would spend hours under the glow of the yellow lamp winding strands of indigo, vermillion and coral-colored yarn back and forth against the tinny needles. He would spend hours in the garage constructing boxes filled with powdery sand or tiny bicycles balanced precariously on small, uneven rubber wheels. At dinner, they would conjure pithy, poetic names from the peas and potatoes, and share slight smiles at the thought of how much their world would change.




Track 5: “Clean Getaway”

When baby girl was four, they took a trip to the Grand Canyon and watched the great cliffs leech all the color from the sun. They would camp out under the stars, telling stories with no distinct beginning or end. She would run her hands through baby girl’s blonde hair, leaving a trail of curls upon the red woolen blanket. He would carve pieces of wood found by the fire into bears and horses and fish suspended in motion. And in the hot summer sun, they would strip off all their clothes and wade into the cool, dark blue lake, sending ripples of excitement and wonder further down stream.




Track 6: “Run Devil Run”

When he hit her for the first time, she took two steps backward until her spine felt flush against the wall. He would reach for her hand in apology. She would try to forget everything in the morning. A purple bruise would blossom across her right cheek like the cherry trees in spring, which she tried to hide with the translucent face powder she kept for special occasions. He would bring a bouquet of budded tulips home in the evening, but the flowers remained tightly bound until they eventually died two weeks later. She slowly withdrew into herself until they would navigate around each other like ships on a black sea looking for light, afraid of jagged rocks.




Track 7: “Into the Mystic”

When things didn’t change, she finally left him, swaddling baby girl tight against her chest and dragging a battered green suitcase across the gravel driveway behind her. He would stand in the doorway of their first home promising to change, begging for another chance. She would sit behind the steering wheel of her car for a moment, trying to suppress the tears, before maneuvering into drive and heading west, putting miles and miles between them until it was time to rest. She would wake before dawn and sit on the hood of her car in the darkness and wait for the sun, a sign that things would be different.




Track 8: “Rhythm of the Saints”

When baby girl was ten, she asked about love. Her mother took a deep sigh, looked at her small, pale face and smiled a little. She then told the story of a blue goose named Dan. And the boy across the street. The beacon of light. She talked about the promises and the hopes and the plans they had made for the future. And the adventures they had shared. And the colors they had seen. And the way they had laughed, but also how much she had cried. And how the boy and the girl in the window were gone. But that the love was real and true. And baby girl understood.

Side B is every song on Side A
redone on theremin by Pops
who is recording himself, his hand
wavering around the correct notes then hitting them,
a little too loud, then softening. Not exactly
the songs that came before yet somehow better.
When I put my ear to the tape player, there is a whole
lot of sound on the recording that was unintended:
I hear the wind chimes
and the avocado tree’s leaves brushing up against the walls.
I hear the power plant next door,
Skip in the big kitchen full of persimmons, Terry
gurgling bong-water, the lapping
of cars on the overpass. Or maybe
he meant for all the other sounds to be there. A whole
orchestra from every day stuff. The tops.