Bismarck Sound

yellow buds surround

this north country hamlet,

 

while white buds in the valley

below await the day they meet

that final vat of frying oil,

 

this is Americana uniquely

defined for the land just below

forty-nine but there is no unique

style of poetry or alternative country music

that is said to be from there and there only,

 

this is not the the Austin sound,

 

this is not the Bakersfield sound,

 

this is not the Nashville sound,

 

this is not the Minneapolis sound,

 

this is prello locked within the mad mind

of a man currently obsessing over John Machin's work,

 

highly distinctive in other words but no different

from the rumblings of a dying piece from the

Minneapolis-Moline and Massey-Ferguson scrap heap,

 

like knowledge about a former missile field written in

between sips of freeze-dried, s**t acidity dulled and masked

by the sweetness that will go extinct when colony collapse

disorder becomes the reality that unleashes the white horse of Christ,

 

this is the Bismarck sound that never established itself fully

as the fake critics or revisionist historians might say within

their own circle of bullshit-happy friends that are professional

backstabbers when the group disbands,

 

and that might be the moral of the story after all,

 

actions speak louder than words and words speaker louder

than silence and yet everybody will never hear the full scope of it

Author's Note

Heavily influenced by the Americana station on my Ipod's Galaxie app, life around me and the history of alternative country music.