Perhaps you live in the apartment building bisected by the subway overpass, nothing but a thin concrete wall separating your private life from the collective stare of the masses onboard the train. Whereas I live at the other end of the line; a station in the woods, which dispels the grim isolation of this remote seaside town. When I was young, I often dreamt about tunnels, all of which led to my aunt’s basement; huge, cluttered, common space, and somehow, all the world’s basements and subway stations and underground parking areas became interconnected. My young mind could not fathom the staggering possibility that my aunt’s basement might in fact be a gateway to the root system of the metropolis; a system of such remarkable size and intricacy, no one really knows its full extent anymore: with its boilers and burners, gas mains and water mains, sump pumps and storage tanks, furnaces and fuse boxes, all linked by twenty thousand miles of wire and pipe. Before the advent of interstate highways, can you imagine those places that got the track but not the station? How many people died trying to jump the trains? Runaways, outlaws, vagabonds, not one of them had a contingency plan! What was there to think about? You simply climbed to the top of the ridge, waited for the telltale sound, and if you timed it right, you could kiss your past goodnight!

My user switches me to life. With my vinyl snout, I draw succulent volts of electricity From the energy feeder. My user extends my steel nerve, and I struggle to receive signals from the Wavemakers. I can translate all known languages from AM or FM, but the Wavemakers control my mind. They put words into my mouth, or they compel me to speak in music. My user changes my mind. He likes to hear me scream.

You think too much. Leave the thinking to us. You think too much. We have assumed control. Look what you’ve done. You sold out the state. Look what you’ve done. You sold us your soul. Your phone is being tapped Your mail is being read Your mind is wired for sound So we can hear the voices inside your head We know who you are We know where you go We know what you think We know who you know Leave the thinking to us You’ll thank us someday Leave the thinking to us You’ll be free and clear Leave the thinking to us Because if you don’t Leave the thinking to us We’ll make you disappear Your phone is being tapped Your mail is being read Your mind is wired for sound So we can hear the voices inside your head We know who you are We know where you go We know what you think We know who you know We know who you are We know where you go We know what you think We know who you know In accordance with the Patriot Act We will tell you what to think Add your name to our blacklist Slip some polonium in your drink We know who you are We know where you go We know what you think We know who you know You think too much! You think too much! You think too much! You think too much!

Driving down the road, and we really wanna stop. Yes, we really wanna stop, but we just can’t stop. We wanted to stop two hundred miles ago, three hours ago, but we just can’t stop. And we’re hoping the cops will pull us over ‘cause then we can spend the night in jail. A night in jail’s no cause for weeping compared to where we might be sleeping, in our car, at a truck stop, without a gun on Interstate 81! At the Ramada Inn in Roanoke, we wanted to stop, but we just couldn’t stop. At the Ramada Inn in Roanoke, We wanted to stop, but we just couldn’t stop. There’s no room at any inn for miles around ‘cause there’s NASCAR racing in Bakerstown. We really wanna stop, but we just can’t stop! And we’re not alone out here on the road. There’s dozens of people just like us. They really wanna stop, but they just can’t stop. So forget about the auto race on the oval track! See the speedy cars going ‘round and ‘round! The real auto race has already begun on Interstate 81! Now we’re racing for the exits. Now we’re flying down the off ramp. And now we’re looking for the big signs. Holiday, Ramada, Comfort Inn. We really wanna stop, but we just can’t stop! Screeching to a halt in the parking lot. People jumping out of moving cars. Now we’re rushing for the front door. Now we’re rushing for the front desk. And now we’re pleading with the check-in girl. Give us a room! Please give us a room!! I’ll pay any price! Take my sister, my mother, my daughter, my wife! I’ll sleep in the mop closet! I’ll sleep on the bar! If we can’t sleep here, we’ll have to sleep in the car! Can’t drive anymore! I’m finished! I’m done! So please don’t make me get back on Interstate 81!!

Had I been fully aware, I surely might have crumbled, but I was seven and resilient. My frenetic mind deferred the gravity of the loss, transforming it into a temporary fear of poisoning by osmosis. Had I been fully aware, I surely might have crumbled, but you refused to let the tragic accident shatter me, and that is why all I remember about those late night car rides is a nameless sense of urgency and the songs we used to sing on our way home from the hospital.

He arrives on the scene In a mindless rage He screams, “Turn up the lights! Blow up the page!” And he swears Sightey’s gonna pay for putting him down. Some people won’t leave their homes at night ‘Cause some damn fool shot out all the street lights Low Vision Biker’s gonna find that fool and set things right. Low Vision Biker fell from grace long ago He lost faith in the human race long ago And now, he’s lost his mind! Dark, dark as his view of the world Dark, dark as the thoughts in his mind. Dark, dark, dark as night. Low Vision Biker fell from grace long ago He lost faith in the human race long ago And now, he’s lost his mind! Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. No one knows where he’s going. Some can’t be bothered to guide those in need. Some have been blinded by ignorance and greed, And some shortchange others who can’t see one from five. He’s got no use for legislators and their scheming He’ll beat them with his cane till they stop screaming. And someday Sightey’s gonna pay for putting him down. Low Vision Biker fell from grace long ago He lost faith in the human race long ago And now, he’s lost his mind! Dark, dark as his view of the world Dark, dark as the thoughts in his mind. Dark, dark, dark as night. Low Vision Biker fell from grace long ago He lost faith in the human race long ago And now, he’s lost his mind! Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. No one knows where he’s going. Dark, dark as his view of the world Dark, dark as the thoughts in his mind. Dark, dark, dark as night. Low Vision Biker fell from grace long ago He lost faith in the human race long ago And now, he’s lost his mind! Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. Go. Go. Go. Low Vision Biker. No one knows where he’s going.

Like a number etched in plexiglass. Like a number sewn into skin. Like an ember glowing in a furnace. Like the woman who never bore a child. Like the child who never grew to manhood. Like the man who might have learned the secret. Of the virus that afflicts the young body. Of the child whose father slaughtered millions. Like the father who watched his child dying. From the virus that shut the gates of Heaven.

Coursing through the North Atlantic, the fish are dispersed by the subsonic tremor of the garbage barge as it enervates their spawn with phosphorescent waste. Myriad microcosms lost in an instant. The echoes of death reach all of their brethren. When nets are full of chunky poison, we shall soon taste it.

Tom, At first, after listening to your (so called) ‘music’ on the 19th at Consolidated Works I was upset that I’d wasted the time and the $15.00. But then I realized the value of hearing the worst example of composing (so called) (or improv or whatever) that I could imagine, because at least it makes me better appreciate actual/real composing. It was embarrassing to sit through it though and see people think they were actually listening to something and applauding. And it was also painful to see otherwise probably very good musicians being gullible enough to waste their time and respect (or dignity etc.) playing it. Other than sitting through a Junior High Concert once, that was the Absolute Worst music (so called) experience of my LIFE. Do yourself and other people a favor and do something else with your time. Otherwise all you are doing is degrading people’s music sensibility. Brad P.S. I had gone to the concert there on the 12th with Karen Pollick (& Sokolov) and thought I’d discovered a sort of Gold Mine to hear (great!) music, but now I somewhat doubt I’ll ever go there again. The guy on the phone who gave me your address asked me if I’d heard the part with the drums and violin. I left before that. (I just couldn’t stand it anymore). But so what if that drums and violin part was good. It was probably nothing compared to the dullest part of the previous week’s concert, and no matter how it was, it would not have compensated for the previous hour of drudgery and ridiculousness.What was especially aggravating was the droning on and on of notes – such as that 1st thing with the accordion, flute, violin, bassoon and/or oboe etc. I was thinking “OK, so this first piece of ____ is a drag, I’m sure things will get more interesting." But then the next ‘piece’ is the same droning and droning (and also a lot of the clarinet and piano at the start of the 2nd half when I finally just left). Actually I think that’s sort of an arrogant thing to do to an audience – as if you’re some sort of Buddah (sic.) forcing everyone to endure this boring droning – as if it is somehow ‘meaningful’- AND IT IS NOTI don’t care how much of an audience might be duped into thinking it is. But even the fast stuff was not that interesting, at least not for me. (This letter is not about your own personal violin playing. For all I know you might be a very good violin player when playing actual/real music.)

You will say grudge match grudge match You will say smackdown smackdown You will say bushwhack bushwhack You will say desert desert You will say righteous tyrant You will say bloodline bloodline You will say oil oil You will say pipeline pipeline You will say hash pipe hash pipe You will say dealer dealer You will say market market You will say hustle boogie You will say carpet bombing You will say pilot Game Boy You will say air raid air raid You will say slaughter sausage You will say sausage grandma You will say grandma sausage You will say sausage grandma You will say welcome bullet You will say freedom righteous You will say rescue rescue You will say joyful looter You will say priceless statue You will say market market You will say dealer dealer You will say hustle boogie You will say order silly You will say Starbuck’s latte You will say resort Vegas You will say nightclub nightclub You will say hustle boogie You will say burqua burqua You will say market market You will say strip mall strip mall You will say slit skirt slit skirt You will say strip club strip club You will say motel motel You will say annex annex You will say statehood statehood You will say mission accomplished

There once was a theater on the west side of town, Where pretty young ladies let their stockings down. Where I once sang lewd verses and danced like a clown, Where we all were free to speak easy. Then one day the enemy threatened to invade, And all the townspeople grew sad and afraid. They forgot all the silly love songs they once played, They stopped drinkin’ and dancin’ and started to pray. Well, the people grew somber and dressed all in black. They hid in their houses and braced for attack. Though the enemy seemed fierce, they vowed to fight back And move on. I realized that something was terribly wrong When I walked past the theater but could hear no song. So I picked up my banjo, and I played all night long, Daring the enemy to seize me. And I wandered the streets till the church bell tolled three Till I stopped by the house of my friend Tom McGee, And I stood on his lawn, and I sang out of key Till old Tom stormed out just as mad as could be! He said, “How can you sing when we’re goin’ to war?! Put down your damn banjo, please don’t play no more! Your singin’ will lead them right to our front door, So, be gone!” Tom, I’d rather die than live one day in fear, So I’ll be at the burlesque if the enemy draws near. Or I’ll be at the bar drinkin’ whiskey and beer. Where we’re all free to speak easy. My nonchalant manner may cause you distress. You may call me a fool when I drink to excess, But I won’t let no man deny my happiness. I’ll sing as loud as I like and speak easy. So let’s go to the bar, and we’ll raise up our glasses To eager young laddies and buxom young lasses, And if we feel tempted, we’ll smack their sweet asses, Where we’re all free to speak easy.

In the summer of 1994, my family and I traveled to France. While there, we visited the World War II memorial at Omaha Beach. The Omaha Beach war memorial consists of a large cemetery, where the Allied soldiers who fought and died in the Battle of Normandy have been laid to rest. If you visit the site, you can see the beach from the top of a steep hill, which overlooks the English Channel. Visitors are permitted to walk down to the beach. There is a narrow footpath, which winds down the hill and eventually falls away in to the sea. The hill is covered with a variety of thick shoreline vegetation: weeds and grasses, shrubs and mosses. My brothers and I were interested in walking down to the beach, and so we looked to see where the footpath began. We followed a stone wall, which ran along the top of the hill, until we came to a gate. The gate was unlocked, however, fastened to it was a small sign which read in French, German, and English: “BEWARE OF WILD BOAR.” We found this sign to be most peculiar. On the one hand, we couldn’t understand why a wild boar would choose to roam in an area which attracted such a large tourist population. On the other hand, we couldn’t understand why the French government would allow a wild boar to run loose on the grounds of the one of the nation’s most revered historical sites. As we stood in front of the gate, staring at the sign, a young boy came up behind us, clutching the hand of an elderly gentleman, who appeared to be the boy’s grandfather. Noticing the sign, the boy turned to his grandfather and said something in French. His grandfather responded in a voice which, to me, sounded quite solemn. I do not speak French, but my brother, Derek, is fluent in the language. My brothers and I let the boy and his grandfather go ahead of us, and after they had gone beyond hearing distance, I turned to Derek and asked, “What were they talking about?” My brother paused for a moment, appearing to be somewhat astonished. Finally, he began to explain. “The boy had asked his grandfather about the boar. Now, I may have misunderstood, but I thought I heard the old man say that the boar has roamed this hill for the past fifty years, hunting the ghosts of the Nazi soldiers who died here. The spirits of the Nazis have been condemned to this place. They are seen only by the boar, which relentlessly pursues them for all eternity. No one has ever seen the boar, but many have heard it on dark, moonless nights, screaming its message of divine retribution; that all those who, in life, were consumed with hatred are now and forever consumed by it."

Enchanting… Daughters of stardust Beckon us towards their fragile future. Can you see it? A wondrous light for none to keep. Will we bear witness till our blood glows heavy? Yes, once we reduce rare earth to essence, Apocalypse whispers in our pockets. Can you hear it? This whisper put an end to the war. This whisper put an end to the world. The century dawns so bright. Why deplete ourselves in vain pursuit? We can delve beyond the flesh, to the bone, to the marrow, to the clockwork of stars! Must you leave so soon, my love? Agendas and wayward carts might rend you from my life, but I swear, they shall not rend me from our work! I’ll catch infinitesimal traces of unearthly power, blessings that can’t be counted till our thrill numbs our dread, curses that can’t be lifted till every half-life’s spent and nothing’s left but lead! Listen... This whisper put an end to the war. This whisper put an end to the world. This whisper put an end to me.