An evening of shadows and breeze, under the holding-together eves of an old abode.
The artificial light, florescent and projected, night time colors that existed fornever until almost now.
Here’s motorbikes on dopler, conversations off-kilter,
nearby hawks for dollar,
and in this allyway, a master of ceremony
Rangga turns QWERTY to grooves,
joins disjointed patterns with glue of silence.
Rungga holds court,
captures drums,
spits then grinning
This echolaction for the slow
The ghost play flutes
Ghosts that live everywhere here unless the air has been cleared
Ghosts, trapped, out of time, cursed to repeat the last thing uttered, till…
Cleanse with noise
Return to drum
Hold no pattern
Quick
Pick it up…
your pulse is ringing
Quick
Something is inside….
Your chest
Quick
This b[e]at
Has hooks
Quick
Pick it up…
your pulse is singing
skirted Records 