MICHAEL SLYNE- "CAVES WITH SOLSTICE HOLES"





Michael reached out a few months back about getting his Family Stoned's newest LP "These Things Are Beautiful You Are These Things" reviewed on the blog. While I listened to the album (and loved it), I often find myself disillusioned with writing "record reviews" so I put off the task. However, I recently spoke with Michael and asked if he would be open to contributing any other type of medium to the blog. He fortunately sent over some stories and poems. I urge anyone who is not aware of Michael Slyne, to visit his Bandcamp and give his good work a listen. It is as wonderful as these writings. As I type this I am listening to his "Live At Willimantic Records" recording and it is truly blasted.  Thank you Michael. 


Roger, 3/7/22


Relatives


He would find distant relatives

And hit on them

It’s what got him off

He would invite them to explore

Ruins, or bombed out buildings

Or caves with solstice holes.

Pick at crumbling foundations

Get them lost in thick briar

Salivate when they bled.

It’s what got him off.

He would lay in the tall grass

Twitching like a fucked clock

Mood rings guiding his day

He was a devil at his limits

He wore a silver heart pierced in his ear.

He swam well below the surface

Opened his eyes

Thought he saw the light

It was just the moon.




Conversation between two men getting to know each other. 


In a Bar in Nowhere USA: 


Man 1 you ever seen a sheep being sheared? 

Man 2 No? Well, yeah, I've done it. I don't care about a sheep though I need to find a way to say fuck more eloquently. Are there any instructional books about it?

 Man 1 Yeah I’m sure there is, some sort or proper language instruction. But what about the sheep? They all say it doesn't cause them pain, that the sheep feel nothing. I can't believe that. 

Man 2 Well, does it hurt? Did it hurt in the chair at basic when they shaved you down? 

Man 1 Well, I don't know. I don't remember. I kept my hair short. Without knots. It's not unkempt. The shears must pull at their skin. They must feel that way. Anyway, forget about the sheep, sorry I brought it up. 

 3 minutes of silence, scarping at beer bottle labels and a few heavy sighs.

 Man 1 I saw these kids running around in the city the other night. Must have been later than two or three in the morning, they had screwdrivers and hammers for toys. It was lawless. No one cared. 

Man 2 I think kids should always be on the side of lawlessness. It fits them good looks good on them. Anarchy’ safety pins, like the punks. Remember the punks out in England? 

Man 1 the punks? Never heard of them. Did they rail against the queen or the government? That seems Elementary. Did they poke her with their spikes? 

Man 2 No they didn’t poke her. They never even saw her.

Four minutes of uneasy silence. One cigarette smoked. A quarter dropped into the tableside juke.  Three steps to heaven by Cochran and the crickets plays.

 Man 1 you ever been out fishing? I'm talking commercial fishing. The big boy’s sharks or fish the size of small cars…

Man 2 never been on that type of boat. I would surely vomit. My legs are no good, I need to feel sturdy… I did go hunting once. Turned out to be one of the few nights of my life I truly regret. we got drunk. So drunk. I had the barrel pointing at my own face. Nothing was crawling. It was quiet out there. Not even any of those nighttime chirping bugs, real silence. Started popping rounds at trees, blindly wailing, drunken swaying like your head was just hit by a pinnacle Sugar Ray. They weren't trees though. They were totem poles, big old slabs. Intricate, full of detail. Not those those fake things you see on the porch of an old country store. Not like those ones you see mounted up as an advertisement for chewing tobacco. 

Man 1 Alcohol and boredom can be the devil awoken in someone 

Man 2 the one other strange thing that happened that night, as far as we were out in the woods, we happen upon an old burnt up Buick. One of those tanks your Daddy might have worked on.  All charred up with bullet holes through the windshield and driver side door .What was strange was someone had Elvis and Priscilla on their wedding day airbrushed right there on the hood... 

Man 1 you haven't asked me my name. 

Man 2 well what's in a name? It's like an American lawn. You either care too much or show it off, or it's overgrown and means nothing. It wasn't even your choice. It was given to you before you defined yourself, given by people who will never fully know enough you to determine if it was really fitting name at all.

Man 1 my name is Alice 

Man 2 today... my name is Rose



Synthetic weed / mouth foam


There is no moon tonight

I’m sure it’s there somewhere

I haven’t thought to look yet


Do you know who the president is?

He knows yes

Let him go

We see this all the time


He screams like a newborn between first breaths

35 years now

Never thought he’d flail like a broken winged bird

Wondering why

He can’t 

Lift off


I’ve never seen a human body move that way



The boy who warned of rain.



He shot himself four times in the head with a pellet gun. Right in the temple. There were girls kissing behind the shed in the next yard over. Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly was somewhere in the air, an American Summer and the golden oldies. He wanted to die. He those girls would never notice. They would never dance to only the lonely with him. They would never notice his new thick black frames. He wanted to die but all he got was a bad infection. It ruined his summer. Those cute girls next door now shyly looked at the ground as they walked out on the sidewalks, afraid to make eye contact. The townspeople caught wind of what happened with stop and stare, or walk by muttering their own reasoning’s as to why he had done it, shot himself with a pellet gun, muttering about what was wrong with the world. They would say things like “his mother said he used to eat ants” or “he acts out because he lost his father in the war”. The war bit wasn’t even true, his father left when he was a young boy. He had a bad relationship with the hard drink and gambling. He took off out west with a younger woman without the hips for bearing a child. His mother asked him why he ate the ants he coyly, “because there's an ant farm in my intestines”. 


The boy became friendly with local out-casted puppeteer, feeling like the freak of the town, the boy and puppeteer became close friends. They figured if people wanted to stop and stare, they would put on a show for them.  Jumping into puddles in the road, throwing rocks at passing police cars, walking into town wearing nothing but jockstraps their pubic hair very much on display. Feverishly kissing each other and playing each other's hair, falling into passing tumbleweeds celebrating their biggest victories. Celebrating the common ground of feeling like the blackballed weirdos, no one would ever understand.

Their decline came quickly.  Too much too fast. The flame of comraderie burned quick and brightly. A Blackface performance by the puppeteer in front of a small crowd in the center of town. Was the catalyst, sure It was for shock sake. There isn't nothing more truly American. Doing things for a reaction. Self-gratitude. They boy found the performance repulsive and in bad taste. Mr. Puppeteer, had crossed over a line that was hazy, but was there.  We don't act upon every thought that passes through our minds. If we did, we'd be dead or in jail. We'd be laid out in the gutter bleeding full of regret. We would be laying there watching lightning bugs remembering the summers, where we were truly free.  Catching those fire fly bugs in jars as they lit up the black night or watching for falling shooters from the sky.  Watching for signs of alien life up in the cosmos. Swimming down by the river, scattering to the woods when the cool girls showed up. We didn't question the future or mortality.  


The boy walked home confused and let down. He grabbed his pellet gun. The boy walked back into town and shot the puppeteer. His makeup didn't smear. He shot him 15 times with the same gun he had turned on himself weeks before. I was in the crowd that day. I was confused as to why there was a man in blackface performing in the street. I stood there silent. I knew something was wrong. When the boy showed up again, I wasn't afraid of the gun. I was afraid of the maniac crowd laughing at this man in blackface, cheering him on. I was afraid because the makeup didn't smear. But I was still calm. The boy saw me, motioning for my attention. Mouthing to me something about a storm. Something about the rain in that storm. Poison rain. The makeup didn't smear acid rain was about to fall.  The Boy shot the puppeteer 15 times and all he got was a bad infection. There was nothing more truly American.









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