David B. Applegate






the organism ends  


Rather like becoming


part of sound, inside music you’re


tuning or enjoying, exploring and dealing


with music


instead of a title, each title has the look


of beautiful people and they


are my next installation.  




Studio processes


the sound which is being


and never is  


the record of music.  I’m going away


with the listener I’m


going away with the listener


tuned to translate the document


into permanently thought-up mixes


in the same dimension as the stuff


on the speakers


is a record maybe, maybe probably


I let it out.  




A simple mix to get the music’s code


not difficult to listen, preserve a show


I know different


They’re going on their thing, a piece


is a recording and a complex


The equipment is six instruments and six years


without chance, I format a position


while cooking dinner sometimes


becoming millions of sounds repeating


artifacts mixing symphony by ear


and twelve devices




I tell you sound


can go into a space titled “Humans”


story painted on a speaker


thumbprint of stereos


every-body listens through people


traveling into a microphone


and out


The wet way we’re built


method of water to approach the sun’s


non-mortal installation


the piece it’s using to sound me




Today’s plastic, choice to be another


record of sounds, knowing separation


from the immortal installation


transformed into zeros, not preserved


physically cooking the phonograph


format closer to a body


which doesn’t differ at the end


from a closed book on movement