The Pinwheel Galaxy spins and spits its spangled load, rhythmic, regular, fantastic it goes ’round pounding. Alone in the silver night we dart from snippet to flash, quantum-timed to saxophones and Epiphones and unknowns. We are augmented minors, perpetually passing chords, born to blend in come-round resolution, to harmonize church-organ fat in tasty four part, thick-bottomed bass, creamy middle, high thirds keening up sharp, a chill-the-spine purple magic only the vow-takers can’t feel. DaVinci vanished in strokes of holy oil, Mandelbrot made drunken cats, Sky Church sustains then fades, Jimi stratocasts from the stratosphere, all ancient beasts that stalk our soul-barrens, an alchemy of star stuff and winter nights, rock-a-bye below the incandescent arcs of meteor tails, wet-electric, alive and alone. There is a certain voice in the strings’ vibrating whine, calling way-far, drawing dust from the Belt of Orion, blowing hot plasma from black hole jets, heavenly harps slaving to the draw and blow of God’s sloppy old black lips. It will always arrive, that thing, whatever it may be, dizzying down from all the possible futures, like games of chance tumble-dumped from a bright celestial box, ringing with notes of joy pink with pathos, singing with sighs of sweet, bluesy sex. Hammer-on and snap-off Jimi. Let’s hear it licked like every woman wants to be, slicker than any spin doctor’s harlot tongue. It’s 3:00 a.m. on a winter’s night, and the pinwheel galaxy needs no spin doctor.
