First Time I Heard Cowboys From Hell

listen to ‘First Time Listening to Cowboys From Hell’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘First Time Listening to Cowboys From Hell (part II)’ on Audioboo

Pardon, my voice on this particular reading. Been under the weather the past few days and a bit hoarse.

I was already well on my way…

         Had been banging my head

For some time by then,

         But, as does occur in

Many avenues, an affecting moment

Would spring forth—

It was something so intense—a

Reaction that was so severe, it made

Not the lick of common sense—and yet

Its very existence revolutionized the inner

Songs playing—the screaming stung—

and from it—realities never dreamed of,

suddenly appeared—proving to some kid, how

beautiful a violent voice can be

in that moment, on that fourth, of July, 1990,

on an otherwise abandoned midnight beach, the

skies exploded—in this place I never should have been—ever

the reminder of the lie two friends shared—each telling their parents, over at the others that night they’d be—yet finding chance encounters with an older crowd—beyond anything that would have been approved—and it was here, on that eve, two teens, would find their everything to alter, shift and rearrange—way past any disruption they could have ever dared to learn—reaching far beyond anything ever

Felt before

My friend, by some burnt out log near the waves, lost his innocence, to some Canadian girl only stopping by after spotting us while on a midnight beachside stroll…

Mine had been removed much earlier…however, what innocence was left, would be sucked clean there that night, after hearing what would be, a shift in possibility—a parallel version, previously hidden, now received—where NEVER, never before, had I listened to such a thing—

again and again it would be played, by the beach, near the waves—

Sung, spoken, screamed, with a unity that grabbed hold of someone not knowing they needed something more, something unique, a treasured artistry, ever promising to keep offering unknown necessity

And like a sledgehammer to the basin of the skull, word would enmesh with the grey matter, instantaneously releasing that which normally takes years to subtly intimate—

It wasn’t just the words, no, it couldn’t be just the poetry of the lyrics prayed upon by the voice itself—but it was an unearthly combination of the grated tonality of shredding steel, laid bare before the presence of a melodic scream—where each rasping air collects all the emotion left exposed within, infecting the resonating space of the combinatory experience, shared between that voice in the machine, and the faction of our most repressed and desiring side of personality—

Never more, in any place, could a transformation’s definition be described so poignantly in such unrefined manners of confused deliberation—for here, in this case, the speaker is the singer, the singer is investigating—searching for the same answers that shadow the path of the listener’s arc of internalized questioning—

Never again could a verse appear, as it had done before the lake’s warm yet cooling air—

It would from that moment onwards, covet the comparisons I’d eventually have to make, exiling the classically beloved, to a place that is now, nowhere near what’s good enough, exposed for the flaws it demonstrates when placed adjacent to such a revelation as this —

Raw emotion purges out—spraying the canvas clutched upon—etching vignettes and pointed scenes, each, riddled with questions that simultaneously tear and unite the fraying sides and seams of the mortally withered fabric of being

And finally, in summation, I reflect back fondly, to that sandy space, where the names of the others occupying that short tract of beach there on that particular evening have become impossible to recall as the years move further away from this point of origin—no, I can’t recall their faces, let alone the names and I just don’t care, for all of them were no more than insignificant fillers of scene—they bore no consequence to the memories gathered there that night—

I certainly have refined my tastes over the years, yet still, this realization created alongside those formative shores, still remains, still flashes forth as it did that night, as an epiphany not quite as loud and shattering as it once stood, but still holding steady as a significant point of reference for what musicality has transpired within, these past twenty-two summers since

And still, to this day, I find it difficult to remind myself that this was all but a collection of songs—mere lyrics enhanced by creatively timed rhythms and beats…and then, I smile slantingly, as I drift back to that space, hearing the cascades caress the sandy shore, reflect upon all the available sensations still available for recall…all the while knowing, that such songs…were not simply heard…but were understood on levels indescribably so meaningful, that the music became engrained into my very fiber, therein becoming ever so firmly rooted deep.

This was the first time, music truly touched my life.

*On July 3^rd, 1990 Pantera released Cowboys From Hell, which, in my opinion, is one of the most influential records ever made, both for me as a listener of music, and to the myriad of musicians who have quoted it’s influence upon both their lives and unto their own compositions and musical endeavors.

Head on over to D'Verse, where I'll be hosting Poetics tonight, where we'll be talking about First Times.  I look forward to seeing you all there. 

The Kisses

Standing on a sanded section of time
I noticed a miracle
There, in the distance,
was a swirling dance of air
Particles blustering in syncopated rhyme
Twisting, turning
and then she appeared to me
Angelic with her sand-painted skin

Stuttering inside I watched her approach
I looked to each side but I was
alone

She spoke a tongue I knew a bit
enough to converse, but still read lips
closely,

I think she knew, as the American in me
probably was screaming loud.  And I think she slowed down,
just enough, perhaps altering the normalcy of her sound

My wares were there to browse
Mainly goods for wear

and then
to the orange plaid patterned shawl
she looked at me

eyes flittered about
careful blinks between the grit in air

dangling gently from her arm
so pure, so perfect

The tag twisted in the indecisive wind

and she said, diaz besos

I thought, a barterer, haven't seen one of them in quite some time,

normally, normally I would have shook my head, nunca, nunca, perhaps I would have said

but 10 kisses from a beauty as such, was too hard to pass upon, was too much to say nunca too

And so I nodded in approval

and as she leaned in,
I closed my eyes, hands wide open
to hold her near

It was then, the 10 coins appeared.

Anyhow, long story to make a simple point.

Over at Pat's, he had a contest post, too which, in reply I made one of my usual corny jokes.  But that reply got me thinking about language, and how easily the mind can twist words that sound similar to how one wants to hear them.  In this piece, the native speaker altered her normal pronunciation, assuming the foreigner needed assistance in understanding her, but this, combined with the foreigners infatuation, misheard her all the more.  Anyhow, just thought I'd play around with this idea of miscommunication and how attitudes, emotions and/or stereotypes can alter perception.