Listening To ...

I come to you all dressed in sound
bluebirds tripping wires to the ground
connected to a time machine that will not power down.
Set the crosshairs back on one
you said we'd only die here in a sun
the way your headstone shines
I only wish that it was mine.
So set the crosshairs back on one
and nail the loop that brings the second run
past the wished-on charms
and through the lens back to your living arms.
This time machine won't power down
and this time machine won't power down
and still the crosshairs rest on one
and still you rest there in the morning sun
and still I fumble through pages of constructions on the ride.
I like the blown-out sound you've found
I like the way it feels here coming down.
The way your headstone shines
I only wish that it was mine.

The band is Hum. You have to play it loud. Hendrix-loud. Feedback is beautiful, feedback is the buzz you get from a lover's stare, it's the breath of rock music. Most of what I used to love bores me now except as remembered passion. I've even finally worn out the Beatles, after, what, 30 years? I listen to Fado now, Portuguese songs of yearning and loss. And Azam Ali's otherworld music. Louis Prima or The Blasters for a party. Wilson Pickett. But every now and then, something still gets me in the old way that "Tomorrow Never Knows" did in 1974. So, Hum.