Rant: For the Cottonmouth Tribe


Orange lighter. Blue lighter. Fender guitar pic's

in Mountain Dew ashtrays. Incense insisting the

hallway won't know. Climb over notebooks of lyrics

doused with experience. The room is a diamond

vault hissing to gleam. Ax in the corner mourns

moonbeams gone in the altitude. Smooth intrusions of

sunsleep waft out to the alley. Like Duke and

Robert Johnson crossing the swamp with notes written

in philosophical mudslides. Oscillating fans on high,

lifting last nights studio sessions toward a threadbare

carpet below. Stone building you are a bold soldier

searching for audible ammunition. Vocal forays into

multiple genre's. Common man troubles drip off the

strings. Dimly lit fizzures of emotional fault lines

trip simple, like feathers and heaven and riff's with

clipped wings exposed.