Amani’,
I once thought that if angels fly they must have a cargo limit. But you said I was thinking about it all wrong and that if our cargo is immaterial there is no limit to what we may carry. All I know is Nia just yelled down into the womb of the ship to tell Ret to hurry up with the spinning and the wrenches and such… Time is coffee, she gets so impatient, like someone else I know… then from the deep came whistling back some poetic riff about the songs these Twin Merlins will whisper in our sleep. Ret’s buttoning up the engines now, so I’d better go buckle in and check the list. Nia’s going to show me how to fly this thing.
Wheels up… Fingers crossed,
-Cap’n Lorc’n
In the days when the books turned dusty
In all the travels
In all the forgotten
Places that contain the missing ages
When you were away
Away
A time A place Away
Missing
The default condition
Of the explorer passing eons
Long and straight
Fast and true
Silent
A dart
Fettered by no outside forces
None but the dark lines of night
Pulling us through
Hengies,
I’ve so many stories to tell you but we’ve been on the road non-stop and the tour bus, normally our rolling refuge, has been rocking, humming, and rattling of late. Hunter’s been up all night launching frogs over the dynamite pond again with that infernal machine. It scares me. If it’s plugged in and switched on it has a rhythm of its own, even when he’s not at it. It breathes. And it must weigh a ton. If JC ever gets on the binders too hard I’m afraid it and Hunter will come toppling out of his bunk… well, I hope I’m not sitting here when they do. Although, Death by Selectric wouldn’t be a bad way to go…
Wear your helmets!
With Love & Babushkas,
PSL
Mari,
Sylvia’s teaching me how to move with my edges out. Only two sutures so far today and it’s lunchtime already. She says I’m going to learn how to walk that way. I was going to fashion a sheathe for Il Pitchfork o’ Light (You translate, we’re so quickly outta space) to make her easier to carry on my back but Sylvia says that I’ve been working so hard lately why waste love on a leash? Or did she say sheathe? Because that’s what I meant. Careful, Mar’, I’ve seen how red white feathers can be. But Silvia says it’s all in the silver ink. Or did she say wrist? Wait ’til I take the gloves off, M.
Jimi’s been uncrating ships from boxes of mothballs again and Hunter bats from bottles.
Gotta fly, Things to fix,
Bloody knuckles and all,
-Ret
Musie,
I promised you we’d send a few postcards, so we have. Hunter says they’re the best part of the trip; something about proof of fun and alibis… He said we should use them as chapter breaks in the books. Which makes perfect sense since we wrote them at the diners, cafes, roadside rests and fuel stations along the way. Today we found a truck stop that serves something called the “Double Trucker Muffin Breakfast.” It looked so good and shiny on the picture-menu that JC ordered two (the waitress howled “one Quadruple Bypass!” to the kitchen. Ha! The cook wanted to know if anyone ever finished one), reminding us we’ve got archer hearts onboard, not to mention that We’ve got a helluva long haul ahead of us before We come back ’round this way. He ordered the second one to go and of course to share. It should be good a few light-years down the road… Oscar told Hunter once, Never judge a taco by its price. I know a witchie sage who knew Oscar in the days of her youth and she shared the same advice. I can’t help it when the notes rhyme; I am but a Keeper (from way back, in the earliest days of mine).
Unto the next taco-stop,
Love & Hotsauce,
-P&H, et.al.
When we go supernova
When all the supermoons have spun
After all the atoms collapse together
and all the rotund goddesses have sung...
Dear Sirens,
We’re holding auditions for back-up singers*(over), a row of voices and leg to belt out some Rock and Blues and some stuff Margie and Jimi want to say. Hunter and I are lifting riffs from postcards to wing odes at Kolliape and Jimi’ll be unboxing jacks again one day– wait ’til you meet Margie; high notes like butterflies and low like mushroom clouds. (And Hunter had the windows down!– I wish you could have been a fly in the back seat today.) I’m going to have to find a way to play through it when her bombs come raining down. I’m just now learning to fly. I’ll have to re-string Pitchfork with some heavier twine if I’m going to stay under Margie with enough room to bounce. But our guitar man says he has a trick…
Hunter says he’s wearing his glasses for Margie’s debut. I’m definitely wearing my helmet.
Incoming,
PSL
*(Sorry to write on the front-—) We should have a proper name for the corp because unless backin’ up is what they do they shouldn’t be referred to as “back-up.” If anything I’m backing them; I mean, I’m only roping together backbeat and rhythm with four strings and co-driving the bus; They’re up there swingin’ and opening hearts, riding the point of the spear and breakin’ all the ice!
Our tether’s stretched and tattered
And not once come undone
That thing you told me about holding
It's that thing you taught me and Nia
About time and tomorrow
And how the children see the suns...
Trisk’l-
Nia says take-off is one thing but landings can be a bit touchy so she’s back in the seat now. Finesse, I like it better when she says it; as she does when she’s sticking cards in the walls like darts. She makes it look so easy but she says I must learn to empty all of my hands before I learn to set it down with one. I presumed that that’s what the pencil was for; turns out it does more, especially if you keep the point sharp. But how do you empty your hands when they get so full you forget what’s juggling them? She puts this thing down without spilling a drop of java; though she’ll say she’s but a bus driver, just doing her job. So I’d better get back to mine… tick tock, drip drop…
Keeping the seat covers clean,
There should never be a postmark if you stick your landings,
-Ret
Raf’,
I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t breathe, no air, no place to go, not even to quietly suffocate. My eyes were starving like the rest of me so I went out for a gaze. The stars are out tonight. The sky is deep and wide and there’s a lot of chatter filling up the big spaces in between; Pooling… dammit, now I want to swim. I want to go somewhere where the sky is bigger and the stars… they are reflections on a silver pool and I am falling in. I’ve been disruptive for the greater good, the creative. I knew there’d be travel ahead soon, it’s pulling. I knew there’d be words, they’ve been piling up, and I knew there’d be tears. It’s just that your stars… they’re so far away. And travel always sounds so lonely though I can’t figure out why it does or ever should. It may keep me up. Your postcard says She’s been wondering where I’ve been. So have I. But now I’m wondering where I’m going to go…
Nocked and exhaling…
-Nia
Musie
Hunter said the motion-picture version should fade in with an Amazon box floating through space all dramatic and splintered glass and slow-mo hard-candy and whatnot like a shattering mosaic lovingly set to music— we’re working out the songs now— followed by an Alexa in a heavy glass tumbler laughing her little lights off in her cold and cordial way because she knew it was dumb luck that she happened to be trying to understand human perspective precisely when another ship came along and blindly crushed and burned a pedestrian because everyone seemed to forget that their high beams have a dimmer-switch. It’s my turn to drive from here on in because our captain opted out, and I don’t blame him (You should have seen his date! Simply radiant.) It’s written into his contract and his lawyers work for us. I’m just doing my part and giving back which means I’d better get back to work. When Nia heard the word “harbormaster” she had to look it up.
At the wheel again flickin’ thru the charts,
-PSL
Nia,
“Go somewhere where there are stars,” it says here, like an afterthought pinned under the postmark. Her mind slips so quickly off a three by five… there’s a spiral galaxy out there, fiery-red and spinning, spilling, expanding, bleeding its fire into space as if reaching out for another that’s doing the same…
She sounds like a travel agent tonight. I’ll address her “Dear Sirens” next time and see how that spins.
Time to make more breadcrumbs,
-Rafe
Ernie,
Thank you. That slug of Whalebone helps. You are a maddening genius. Which makes me wonder what other tricks you have up your vintage sleeves… Have you any petrified Redwood by chance? I think it would be just the thing for Rosie’s blushing stone neck. It warms to the touch.
Still swingin’ a club and drivin’ da bus; Dare I say, Sometimes With A Pick?
(I can see you cringing now)
Clickety click,
-Caveman
Loves,
Yesterday we broke down a spell somewhere outside of a one-light municipality called Purgatory. I thought it was a joke. But nope, there it was printed on the map and on the town sign with its population, incorporated date and time. JC said not to worry, the mechanic owed him a favor, the bus’d broke down there before. No wonder, the roads are steep, narrow, undeveloped, one-way and rough but the folks were delightful if not a bit naive. They towed our bus into town with an ox. JC thinks it needs new bearings. As both co-pilot and navigator, I agree, but we’ll see what the mechanic says when he’s done feeding his stock. Maintenance, kitty litter, and navigation, a bassist’s/co-pilot’s work is never done, especially when I screw it up!
So please forgive me if I write in seven-minute bursts on these Truckstop Postcards but it’s all I have time for; whatever I can squeeze into a 3×5; and even then I have to leave room for the stamp and risk being over-writ by the postmark.
It happens all the Times,
-PSL
Hengies,
Is it just me or is it always now? I renewed my library card yesterday and last night I discovered more about Inanna. (Well, Nia did and pointed it out while she was pulling charts.) I also learned more about the owl over my shoulder and the lion pawing incessantly at the door. I love the library. I think one day I’ll move in for good.
-PSL
Raf’-
Her galaxy getaway sounds quite nice. It’s been a while since I’ve been that far out or so in love and I’ve forgotten how to flirt. It hurts when that happens. It hurts real bad; to want to give; but to be marked Return To Sender… I think it keeps me up. The stars are out doing their part so I should do mine and write her a little island galaxy of her own to float downstream, hang over her desk, or stick on the fridge… or toss in the trash, whatever she does with them… The thing is I’ll never know…
-Nia
Witchies,
I don’t know why the moon’s been on my mind so much lately. I think our long shifts at the wheel have me thinking of home and how it’s forever changing. It’s been a wonderful leg of the tour out here on the western arm… Well, we broke down and we got lost a couple times— in all fairness the signage out here is sparse and notoriously inaccurate for reasons the semi-sentient species (guessing by the way they drive) have yet to grasp (with only two opposable thumbs), but what a fun crowd! Hunter and I really click when the moon is waning and we just played a planet where all the moons were waning at the same time— Whatta Show! You should’ve seen Hunter go… Six! String! Fury! Even Jimi and JC said there was something supernatural happening in the rhythm section the night we got down on that wor1d. I swear the guest-drummer must’ve had eight hands and/or 1egs. My fingers are b1istered today but on1y from being so busi1y happy dancing 1ast night. Thank the heavens for whiskey and duct tape. When the magic happens, I always wish you were here. I miss you. Looking forward to Sunday night and a New Moon at the Faire!
Driving South,
Fuzzy Dice,
PSL
Hengies,
Upon my return, may I reserve the Coven Pool? And perhaps a shelf in the library? I’ve been feeling flammable and dirty— full of unstable and/or unconverted energy— and in need of a bath. Preferably of fire. I love burning. I have more refining to do. I promised. The beautiful seed at the center is inflammable and it’s what I’m after. I must burn the rest, consume the impurities, all the stuff that’s left over from creation— that is the act of creating lest ye forget. I must incinerate all the clag that’s left over from making such an exquisitely refined fuel as pure love out of crude. Stopping to fill the tanks ain’t as much fun as collecting it on the fly or burning it up in the ‘verse or sharing it on stage but we burn it for the range and the speed in order to get from place to place. Moderation, says the feather leaking lines of ink into space… We don’t need much. A little goes a long way, especially mixed with a drop of empathy. A drop, just a round cap or spoonful, and we could almost go forever…
On tour,
-PSL
Hey Ernie,
Thank you! The Redwood did the trick. I told them I don’t sing but I could pluck strings and drive. I can’t dance either but I figure if I have a bass in my hands I’d at least have an excuse. Dancin’ wasn’t in the contract but neither were the cargo pants. I’m using all the floor- and/or pocket-space I can make. I know you bust my chops because I’m “only” a bassist but you try spelling righteous with only four letters. I hold it down. So bestow any other tricks you got unto moi and moi’d be much obliged. I’m out here trying to tie Jimi to a roving rhythm section all the while Margie’s droppin’ her butterfly bombs. I thought it was going to be easier than this. But then again I never imagined the seats would be so good and I did, after all, do it for the seats. Don’t worry, no one will notice but Rosie’s G-string still buzzes on the fifth. I know you said, “Then don’t do it,” but I like to know it’s there and there’s this one song… I don’t want to dance around it in rehearsal… I wanna play it… I like how you “musicians” have so many names for practice…
Back to it,
PSL
Amani'-
The Moon is now waning in The House of Gemini
It's the quiet house
with a table set for two
and always time for tea
where The Children are out back gazing
in a constellation of daisies
picking stars from the dark
naming them after you and me
-Nia
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