Shapes and Sizes passed you a note from two rows back, from across your apartment building’s hallway (they posted a picture of the hallway on the realtor’s site. It really is a nice hallway.), from two cars down on the A Train (they locked the doors, so Shapes and Sizes had to rabbit run between cars at each stop to get the note to you), or stuck inside your feather pillow, which you only find years later when you’re ripping things apart after the time of death comes in.
Shapes and Sizes passed you a note, which is disconcerting, because Shapes and Sizes used to scream the red parts of their eyes at you. They used to knock over trashcans without concern for the ex-prisoner who would have to pick up all those dunkin donuts wrappers (A poet could say they drop like rain-weighted blossoms in off a cliff, but this guy’s life still runs off a clock; he can’t help it, and he’s no fucking poet.) and stick them back in the garbage. Shapes and Sizes used to lick your ice cream without asking, touch you inappropriately in public places, and now they’re passing you notes? You weren’t even sure they could write, and now they’ve written you a note. There is something wrong.
Shapes and Sizes passed you a note. It’s the kind of thing a doctor does to the other doctor when the diagnosis is bad. You worry. But there’s a reason for the note, and it involves an allergy to cellular waves and maybe a radio contest where Caila won some voice lessons and decided to take them, then to take them seriously, and a pearl jam quote, “I’m still alive.” There’s nothing not fierce about every pen-written letter on every line of Candle To Your Eyes. There’s still a cinder block here. This time it’s just surrounded by something tender.
And I have much, much, more to say about the new Black Milk album (holy moly!), but I wanted y’all to hear it before I finish wrestling with getting on my writing hat again.
Finally, New York people, Dark Dark Dark album release show at Glasslands on Saturday. After giving him more than enough chances, I can wholeheartedly tell you to skip Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson’s sure-to-be-terrible opening set.