by Enablers

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A Blues 02:52
We let go of the moon and stayed good and low to ourselves. The walk had been long and we were tired, saying very little up the stairs, hands at each other’s backs. Inside, we kept the main light off, took off our jackets and hats. I gave her my key and, smiling, we felt the night's cold diminish under our kiss. Hold this, I thought, before it's whittled away. There was packing to be done, and soon the U-bahn to the airport, the parting gazes, and the months of waiting. She walked into the kitchen asking about the last bottle of Flensburger or a cup of the cheap mint tea I too had come to love, and her eye set on the window where dawn kept breaking and breaking open, a Blues for us. I knew she was stopping all movement now, knew she held the refrigerator door ajar and her stare was narrowing around a small, mutated thing outside, some twig or bird trying at her, as all things sentient and undisguised in the heart try.
He yearns for the all-rich, prevailing rout of the night storm. It brings to his sleep a future of better dreaming, knowing flight comes from where secrets breach the hoary thud of his rib cage and take leaps blocks-long through the night, where the destruction most of all touches down in a rage to run and soar with him, well above the very late, very ponderous hours he would spend listening to the blood in his ears or his weeping mother. What memories this bearing serves may prove too elusive, too slithery to isolate on command, but they will all eventually come to wait like patient donors somewhere ahead of him. The little he will come to own and tend to and care deeply for will still fly there, gathering up the ruins of youth when he laughs alone, drink in hand, the faithful arts of will at his side. Only then can he walk from room to room and open doors to see that he doesn’t wait behind them, poised to strike at the child he becomes again.
Carriage 02:06
It's how time and season disengage once the small brace of cool air she comes through bares the tattooed garland of flowers her far, far removed figure radiates for. Parting words, though nigh or remote, dispatch through her like a reading voice. And so many years on now, there's a scale out there, whiffs of cherry blossom in a question of carriage the top of Duboce turns on some nights, ethereal in the lamp light. No strain at all to her gaze. But a definite verge into where the wondering leads and the amusement leaves off.
New Moon 02:16
Make sure it's not so inviting now. Make it warrant question, a shift in posture. It means to say go back to bed, but last night's sly aspect has lost its warm commissions. In a morning athwart drapes and rounded corners, last night draws a sad and regimented search through our various guises; they come out vanquished, staring. Each kiss on the mouth reduces toward a simplistic, longing way back to the night sky of a new moon: a man was yelling from a nearby rooftop. Even in a city his voice seemed like the only sound for miles, crying and crying out for her.
Februaries 04:10
Five p.m. and the ice cracks, settling. I clip the lights, brush the felts, fill the sinks and re-tie my boots. Not a soul in here. What happens is you get stuck in a slender photo album, cut out of frame and spectrum but cradling a large white poodle after one too many bourbons, your focus a serial undertaking with vexing aerial points. Quote: Never meant to be. By 5:30 it’s a coffee and a cigarette, traffic soughing by in a light but ceaseless rain. To the west house lights bristle through a gathering mist on the hill, and a junky appears at my side. Plucking butts from the ashcan, he asks me if I might have a rubber band to spare. When I come back he holds the door ajar, listening to Bukka White sing “Jesus Died on the Cross to Save the World.” Could he come in? I need every excuse to be alone, and humbly shut the door. My eyes are my worst defenses, gouged by the seeing of things as they are and must be. There is no dim or kept light that dresses pity. Time does away. It strips and bares, wracks desire, until the older body comes out cleansed. Naturally, I take the blame. City lights and what transpired under them: the holding of hands, the strokes of thighs--- all the gradual displays that lead to sex and home--- these were in motion, winding about me. Even the smallest beads of rain took in entire motives.
Tundra 02:28
He and his last best keep settle the bench While the simple treatments California offers of autumn Are a backdrop of small, stilled fires in the trees. Through the window cobalt skies set his his bottle at a dull glow And inside the deep recess of his hood the drop of an old hope Stops at first impressions and turns elsewhere Plumbing inward for a lingering chute of Away. The launderers read. Outside the coffeehouse Duke goes picking over a scant bounty Of crumbs and chaff, a-snufflin' so many And's??? he's senseless To the middle-aged bartender who storms the extended surround Like a dreaded cousin-- no one comes to see him anymore! And it's been weeks, Angela, since that body of hers Hasn't stopped to haunt him nights. Where? …Where's she been? …Where's she been hiding anyway? And the launderers in very careful turns put newspapers & books down Uncrossing their legs & vanishing altogether into other disappearances Embraceable or not.
I notice him standing in a slight crouch from the catty corner. His left arm’s extended straight out before him, and with the flat of his hand he’s taking quiet aim at a rope dangling from the back of a cube truck. The hand moves up and down and from side to side, anticipating distance, and wind, and the agility it’ll take to overcome the two. In his right hand he holds the broadside of a small piece of cardboard, cocked at his ear, ready for a toss. He’s about five feet from the rope. Behind him, the shopping cart is parked haphazardly against the curb. It’s full to bursting with marginal scraps and has a forgotten, tottering aspect, as though it had rolled there on its own. He’s so attuned and so precise about the task, the separation between spectacle and dream blurs. He’s a perfect actor. A series of red lights come and go, and his hand begins to work in diminishing degrees now. I cross south and then west, and I stand on the corner behind him. And his hands ---elongated, talon-like--- look beautiful and dangerous at once, capable of beautiful and dangerous things.
Kosovo 03:51
There’s not a lot to smile about given the past few years. A silent, disgruntled man in fatigues in one corner (his corner); Our waitress a young, pretty and sad woman With very rote motions. After they’ve become subjects, and after so many lives Have been stamped, catalogued and coddled, I can later Understand the man who runs a finger across his throat, Directing the gesture at a truckload of kids From the other side of the bridge. We sipped our coffee, talking mutedly, distracted By the value of our curiosity in the morning. It held the room in place. The cook stepped out into the galley behind the counter, smoking, Struck by the tiny acoustics of his plates. And by something precious too, deeply rooted, a charm or a name Hidden beneath the footbridge across the road that Bears out a truth, Slowing. The blunt loss on the faces looking us over, over sips of tea, trying to Gauge the pathos of strangers they can’t help to refuse.
The Bells 03:29
start in at six pm heavily to and slowly back again one present world reeling to another less riveted one below Newer, foreign ears might fall prey and lead a body to wander but he says he’s growing used to them unlike yesterday They were ringing in perfect harmony with the song he was listening to keeping sleep at bay vespers calling out as they have for hundreds of years (coincidental now) secluded in the room It took a long, hard while for the tolling to really register Instead he remained calm, calmly listening to the thrust of them One gong carrying away another bearing forth until the repetitions were neither forward or back but one whole sound like scent comes whole He says he could feel it when he looked at her He could know how often she’s ever cried
Four Women 03:49
See Nina.


Enablers' 3rd Album released on Magic Wallet, Exile on Mainstream and Lancashire & Somerset


released September 1, 2008

Joe Byrnes:Drums,Joe Goldring:Guitars,Pete Simonelli:Words,Kevin Thomson:Guitars


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Band Members: Joe Goldring (former Swans, Toiling Midgets, Touched by a Janitor) on guitar; Kevin Robert Thomson (former Nice Strong Arm, Timco, Touched by a Janitor, now Hazel Atlas) also on guitar; poet, writer, and narrator Pete Simonelli on vocals. Rounding out the line-up is drummer Sam Ospovat (Ava Mendoza, Brendan Seabrook, tUnE-yArDs, William Winant). ... more

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