I saw my grandfather stare into the dark room, poorly lit, and tell the same five stories again and again. And I saw remnants of a life in the form of a house and photographs. Her, with an elephant, feeding it. She was beautiful. She had a life of sorrow. She lost a child. She lost her sight. She wore pajamas everyday once she stopped working and moved to the outskirts. And we ate lunch every week or so. She used to live next to Al Capone’s brother, my grandfather often joked. Her and the Capone brothers. Her life started during the Depression. See her, at a national park, shot from a perfect angle. Odd to see a life in a slideshow at a funeral home. Odd to see her lying there. The vultures are already picking at her life. My aunts all have long necks. It’s hard to understand real feelings and much easier to label them as fake. To designate them: not-worth-contemplation. And I do this too often; I’m too cynical. My grandfather married her when she was seventeen. He, now, peers through the room at their cat. He told me that there is nothing. I don’t even know how old she was when she died. My professor asked me and I lied. But, she gave me money each of my birthdays. She was there for eighteen of them. When I was younger, she would take me and buy me toys. I cried last night about her. My father dreams about her. My grandfather still seems to be half himself. And still speaks in partial thoughts and abridged narratives. She died in September and we all got drunk on Christmas Eve. Maybe this is mourning. But it’s March now. 

Please listen. New track off a new “album” 

Favorite beat off of the new tape.