David B. Applegate

OCCASIONAL POEM

 

 

Where

 

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

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