There are days when words arrive too late to be forgiven. So I reach for six thin strings and let the crime be given. She waits against the wooden chair, white as a guilty moon. A little dust upon her shoulders, a little storm in tune. I know the neck like an old road. I know the frets by touch. Some men pray with folded hands. I never learned that much. So I plug her into thunder, very quietly, of course. And the room remembers horses that never had a horse. Not a weapon. Not a toy. Not a pretty piece of chrome. Just a way of sending voltage through the part that has no home. Stratocaster, speak for me when I cannot stand the light. Cut the dark with silver wire, make the wrong note right. Stratocaster, tell the truth with that bright and wounded sound. If the heart won’t come to reason, let it come to ground. There is a tone at half past midnight that the neighbours should not hear. Clean enough to look like mercy, sharp enough to disappear. The neck pickup has a kindness. The bridge has teeth and bone. And somewhere in the middle is the voice I call my own. The synthesizer starts behind me, soft machines begin to breathe. Korg light in the corner, little planets underneath. A filter opens like a window. A pulse begins to climb. And suddenly the old guitar is arguing with time. Analogue ghosts and human fingers, steel and circuit, skin and air. One part says: be reasonable. One part says: don’t you dare. Stratocaster, speak for me when I cannot stand the light. Cut the dark with silver wire, make the wrong note right. Stratocaster, tell the truth with that bright and wounded sound. If the heart won’t come to reason, let it come to ground. Listen. A guitar is not honest because it is pure. Nothing human is pure. It is honest because it trembles under pressure and still sings. A note bends, misses heaven, finds something better, and returns with dirt on its wings. I have played for absent lovers. I have played for empty rooms. I have played for all the futures that politely became tombs. I have played with too much longing. I have played with too much pride. I have found one decent answer on the wrong side of a slide. So tonight let nothing vanish. Let the cable find the spark. Let the old electric animal walk slowly through the dark. And if dawn should catch me standing with my fingers full of rain, I shall say: I was not lonely. I was only plugged in again. Stratocaster, speak for me when I cannot name the fire. Take this small untidy body higher and higher. Stratocaster, tell the truth with that bright and wounded sound. If the heart won’t come to reason, let it come to ground. Stratocaster, stay with me till the last note lets me go. Some men leave a brilliant silence. Some just bend one note and know. There are days when words arrive too late to be forgiven. So I reach for six thin strings and let the crime be given.
