The Rightful Pivot

by Enablers

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05:08

about

Joe Goldring Guitar, Sam Ospovat Drums, Pete Simonelli Words, Kevin Thomson Guitar

credits

released February 7, 2015

Recorded and Mixed By Desmond Shea and Joe Goldring May/June 2014
at Coast Recorders S.F.
"Enopolis" vocal and trumpet (Paul Watson) recorded by Ethan Donaldson July 2014 at Picasso Machinery, Brooklyn, NY.
Mastered by Doug Henderson at micro-moose Berlin

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all rights reserved

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Track Name: Went Right
Went Right

Instead of left

Out of the closing bar

And at E. 7th and C

Walked smack into a stand-off

Between neighborhood grunts

In wife-beaters and jeans

Holding bats and chains

And, turning, one says “What the fuck?”

And another, higher voice says, “Yeah, what the fuck, white boy?”

And white boy says, “Oh, fuck….”

And goes fuck-fuck!-FUCK!!-fucking away

In a dead sprint, down-and-righting south

And west, south

And west, maybe

Half a dozen of them

Hurling batteries (“?”) and rocks and half-drunk

Cans of soda

Piling on insults and jeers

About mamas and sisters

Until the last three

Then two

And one


Give up the chase

And fall back as a summer rain

Comes down heavier and heavier

And drenched on a corner somewhere

Unable to light the smoke dangling aquiver in his lips

A cop car cruises by and slows to this wet

Panting figure in a doorway failing to light match

After match and, laughing, one of them says,

How’s your night, chief?

And the car moves along, a couple

Of honks for luck.

And one year, many stories, and newborn urban

Legends later, E. 7th and C, to the day and at the

Identical time of night, saw a mother strolling her baby

And smiling at the man standing on the corner

With the curious look on his face, holding his arms

Wide and asking her, “What the fuck?”
Track Name: She Calls After You
She calls after you

by name
in the quiet garden,
forestalling eventualities
to have one more look at you,
knowing you’re less a presence
than an urge to be moving on.
Walking fast is a simulated act of contempt,
a leap away (and what a leap: last night’s clothes pressed
to the body—airborne!-- and a glad little bastard at that),
but in a quiet garden, under a too-bright sun,
contempt is just an overbearing lack of the right words.
Wincing
asserts a shy
yet firm departure.

Despite yourself, the weather
offers its cue for a walk,
and leads you among mothers walking babies,
among parts of a small dusty town more than the sum of
its heat and its primroses, to a valedictory itch
in the loins, overslept: there’s an unexpected grace in moving on,
in those words to be.
They’re rarely ever used for any other reason than
to take up a role, to be somehow above all the insouciance
of manhood but acquire what? That leap?

You just fucked each other
and dried out in the light of day.
You must get into the car, ride, and wait for the moment
you forget what day it is. What you did not say.
Track Name: The Percentages
In the hallway she turned toward him,
what he called
the rightful pivot,
and it wasn’t in the lamplight’s newborn
rite of petition (Ok, yes, I fucked around),
or even the tears all over the rug
that forced acquittal.
He lied willingly, a lot,
which is the heart soaring,
not listening.

If it was,
it would drop, beating woefully
in the temples of his head,
and by this singular force permit that nervous,
quivering motion grief
allows in the door of his mouth
to state its case,
without the harsh clauses
of redemption to weigh it
down.

Victim.

The peculiar sleeping patterns, and the beautiful,
evil confessions
that come seeping out of her
like the scent of dust from the bed.
He goes over them all, calibrating
names of cities, dates,
places-- the whole rotational flux
of images, true or not really,
and they’ll just lay still in the dark,
each of them—information, him, her-- knowing the other is awake,
itching for more.
Track Name: Look
But it wasn't, on a mid-winter evening, rising

---not the moon; it was actually some uptown building’s peak light

appearing at a glance out the train window, just as round

and propped in that occurring, hyper-real clarity,

low in the sky.


The surprise alone was striking enough to jot down

in a rumpled matchbook, the only thing I had

to bear witness (and to extend your amusement)

until some seconds passed and you tapped me, saying,

"like that," pointing behind us,

“over there.”


“Look.”


Climbing up the backs of skyscrapers

and still so yellow, not yet rinsed of the horizon,

just as the sun’s melting behind Jersey.

(( I am the sea and the land
And I run through your hands ))


Struck again, only deeper this time: all those desolate

evenings & erratic early mornings waiting on phone calls,

continents apart,staring out of windows and

up at moons like we were banished from everything

critical to time & place,

asterisks in a story of fugues.


Or like we were lofted too, and were now coming down

through winds and meridians into the solid presence of this train,

these seats, the passengers around us, the shitty but welcome light---

everything taken captive for our new eyes’ sudden appraisal,

our own keeping,

together.

(( Sun runs through your veins
Comet trail in your brain
Sunrise in your veins ))
Track Name: Solo
Ana
slips deep
into the corner
of the sofa
lights a smoke
and curls her legs
fast among the crumbs
and coins
saying little
or nothing at all
to withstand
that deepening stare
that whips up
a pass
through anonymous
but inviting
climes
and comes perched
despite
her critical stores
of boredom


One
frail shift
and that
brittle perch
comes undone
collapsing
one blink
at a time
into the low
opiated rumble
since departed from
her ears
once she really
snapped to, hissing
shit!
suddenly mindful
of the fresh
nail polish
she daintily avoids
smudging
despite her burning
cigarette
and mother’s
mothering calls
she could
be rising
again
padding barefoot
into her room
like that
shutting the door
just
like that
to
him
to him turning
that strange
blue
Track Name: Good Shit
We were told the bubbles should look
like little pebbles you could pour
clean into your hand.

“Go on, shake it,”
said Peanut, junk dealer, mechanic, and feral cat wrangler by day,
shiner by night.

“Shake 'er up and pour some
in the cap.”

We shook our samples, twisted off the caps
and poured.

“See that?”

And they were like little pebbles squeeze-rising
atop a float of clear liquid, rolling over each other,
fighting their way to the surface.

“Now,” he said, dropping his voice
to a firm, reverential whisper, “that there, boys,
is good shit.”


It hit us like a vow,
and then became one,

and we each bought one of the re-used
plastic Mountain Dew bottles for a couple of bucks

and took them back home
and drank them slowly that night,

feeling the good, tippling shit roll down the lengths
of our throats and simmer in our guts,

so that each passing sip became a deeper nucleus of lush darkness,
whetting some soft, citified manner we could never lay claim to

nor hope to abandon in another dark, balmy night years later
when Peanut’s loose-limbed, drunken body plunged

end-over-end from the water tower,
reclaimed by the backwoods of northern Florida.
Track Name: West Virginia
Darkness batting from the gaps of forest trees,
and above us, “clouds like great,
great brains….” By nightfall
Louisville is blacked out & reduced to crucible-quick
chatter in candlelit bars and other spotty garrets of light
way up the road’s vanishing point.

Nothing in over 500 miles was sky
but rippling aerial geographies licked by wind & rain,
wholly something more baleful & not simple
at late sunset....

Somebody please fire up the bath salts!

This weather’s telling too much truth--- lightning sizzling down like
so many strung links of torched pearl--- and it’s been dogging us
all along.

It’s been madness from the evening-purled crests
of the Shenandoah peaks
to this barren town waylaid in the final
morning stars mobs of sparrows are breaking through
like cackling disembodied heads,
like arias,
like eerie legend: our eyes forced wide open
to a desiderata of noxious, weeping tree smoke
dawn lights up over West Virginia.
Track Name: Enopolis
He’s claimed ether for bones

and coils a curious, magnetic way up

and up and up along a nameless vector

Rhythm’s pithy tendrils comb and warm to

till a familiar caress roots, dipping

down sinuous anchors

like falling stars

to feed this gently

tricky surge more

astral flux


And here things turn spooky:


more white hallways’ hatches open up,

accreting and voracious, and through every

hatch he plummets down-spiraling in ape

face, accorded its place as defined

target, so the target may take its muted

blows into godhead.