Back from Remixing ReMixed Art Damage Cut-Up

[Verse] Dark bard in the back medieval panic, first time the sirens played, the room was barely able to scrape together one clear thought to pay for my silence I attend night school in my head and play cracked rock-and-roll at the antenna tower of my skull while a phantom cellist plays WHAT’S INSIDE OF ME (yeah) and Candi is a new glitch in the book of me and a sash of error codes with an A-S-C-I-I grin . . E-A-E, an ear, seas of gray static I get ton after ton of feedback Stand By Your Scan, Tina, handful of blinking studios More exhibition shows, First Lady of forty-odd layers after “Stand By” the musical piñata soul pieced off in little trophies, congrats Shoal of muscle memory, Chitlin Circuit in my veins It’s a big enough subject, oh, renowned ghosts they all went out to Las Vegas in my browser tabs add my page to my wages, shows booked historically in my head Ray of headlights, hit the road, ohhh bet, bet We drink doubt, didn’t expect suburban amaretto coffee nerves Ray has a hall in my chest, all hall of shame-in’ walked into it, goin’ on, one musician explorin’ fame in a mirror he told me keep on enduring Shoals, Alabama, what? “You like female fame legend place?” Ray of static played the quiet single, 1970 got gospel, blues, soul 1 comin’ into the — studio of my country Deep South owner in my head, Rick-like workin’ an equation, hotbed tryin’ to devise a cover large enough to define me They said, “Stand by your scan, stand by your man-made rhythm.” Muscle memory session guys sittin’, oglin’ my exhibition We know a song of arguments unlike how that happened Oh, didn’t write the music out, Captain Rhythm rise at FAME, just played it soulful demon didn’t know its name breadth of clout, capital pain Ain’t no one had the hand-built game Rick-voice in my ear said “Tryin’ to get the country out of that song, tryin’ to get the comfort out of that wrong.” If they could do that I would go long, fade into FAME and Rick-shadow saw prophets in thrift-store denim and saints with stones in their hands Ya got to move, ya gotta move When the law gets ready Ya got to move like a bouncing-ball bassline lick in my bloodstream Background Staton-like choir never did get the country out end result was all the better same song, different singer one covers the wound, one howls at the end artifacts in my attic: fragments from Staton, Pickett, Pop Staples Mac on the piano of my ribcage Aretha heart played on her one big breakthrough “I Never Loved This Man (The Way That I Love Truth)” “If you hear a piano on a FAME recording inside of me, chances are very good that it’s this piano,” says the voice named Gray “Everything touched that piano: white, black, country, R&B It’s an anchor because it represents so much about Muscle Shoals, about how sound can hold a town together.” While the Shoals’ heyday lasted into the eighties of my past lives this city in my chest continues to produce remarkable noise— a fact that low rhythm rising acknowledges by including contributions from the ghosts of John, Secret Sisters, truckers driving through my bloodstream and the Isbell of my own making “We really wanted to embrace what’s happening right now in Muscle Shoals,” says Gray in the liner notes of my brain “It’s an ongoing story.” And somewhere, a book is published on November 11 of every year I survive updated edition, covering the work of startling post-celebratory electronic salutes of enduring power and legacy influential bands I invent in my sleep Suno event in my feed, I was aware of my own grace but chose to double-dip, double-sin ʌx ɸjuǀ [ʌx] [ɸju] "Whew phew" ɸɪu, tʌt, tʌt "Ugh" [ʌx] [ɸju] ʌx ɸju [ʃːː] Tut [ǀ.ǀ] ʌ Yeah (yeah) woah, woah (woah) Singing, “Ying-ya-Ying-yang! Gitch-gitchee, gitchee, ying-yang! Ying-yang-Gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, ying-yang! Ying-yang! Gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, gitchee, ying-yang! Ying”….. Cocapsychosis, chevvuó? “What’re ya saying?” – thumb-joiner, hand turner, wrist oscillator’s repeat towards shouldering thinking gestures address ingratiating personages talking much but saying static Yoknapatawpha County is a fictional Mississippi county created inside my cortex serving as the setting for many of my lost novels and short stories It’s based on a real place I can’t get back to, a county seat called Oxford spelled like “off switch” shouts during rites folk rock in the background skramz in the foreground math in the drum fills rap in the rambling samples of my teeth grinding spoken word in the margins disturbing [Verse] Panther Burns’ loquacious drummer Ross Johnson ghost, thrown out of the club for throwing a beer at me in slow motion I duck in thirteen-eight time he yells in five-four I bleed in broken sixteenth notes and laugh in glitch ’cause they are onto me and the track keeps rolling.