Sunday, August 29, 2021

Break Open Our Skullbanks (For Bob Sauls)

Channeling the anguish of this life perversity
Sweating in the trenches, throwing shade as we give up our ghosts
It’s so messed up the gun held to our temples as another action painting goes belly up

I remember the Stoneman Gallery and how Bob was so kind to record me in the backroom
He even added some guitar licks as I screamed like a child bride hopped up on Red Bull and Prednisone
I learned what a real journeyman is as I hung out in his space and he commanded the room with his Buddha silences

Resisting the pageantry of blood forestalled like a hurricane of broken rainbows and sawed off razorblades
He hits just the right notes as we fall into a trance, an audience of bottom feeders hell-bent on finding the deli tray and pigging out
Dick’s Den cannot hold him; in fact I don’t believe there’s a venue big enough to capture the wounded sounds this Eagle Scout makes with his hands and murmuring mouth

Foretelling a tale older than Christ and larger than the oldest dinosaur there’s no blues this man hasn’t swallowed whole
A junkyard dog pursuing truth in a countryside of busted whores and broken down pimps
Think Raymond Chandler pumping out the pulp as Bob eviscerates the guitar strings with his crime noir fingering leaving no stone unturned or body uninvestigated.

Charles Cicirella

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