Rathin's Blog

-Poem And in that conchshell dream Of kings and madness Of kentucky derbies and Missile launches (just beyond) We are the cold hard That rests beneath the soot And takes from artery to heart Nitrate and phosphorous alike And like the topsoil It takes and takes until Our dreams can only be made With more and more We are the money arrow  That places us in cold anguish As I weep for myself, having forgot A friend and the point of it all We aren’t anything but the direction That cannot be blamed for the lack Of wind to ferry all our feathered Wearied dreams and send us back Of lubbock and dallas, of the royal gardens Of San francisco, Of nashville, tennessee  And the airport I haven’t been to since the wake Of the cold hard tiles of my bed where I imagine Dallas and lubbock and birmingham. The bay and the east all alike in these Except for boston which allows   Only the worst of my best dreams  

You can check out the playlist for the previous month  here .  I only wrote five album reviews for this inaugural issue of "Monthly Streamnotes" (title still a work-in-progress) since my main goal here was to publish this as soon as possible to avoid getting bogged-down with quantity. The idea of doing something like this has been floating around in my journal entries for a while, which risked its permanent banishment to hypothetical.   Unlike the other reviewers whose format I'm shamelessly ripping off here, (predominately Robert Christgau and Tom Hull) I've decided to not be particularly constrained by time. The streaming age—for better and worse—has made music's temporal relevance largely irrelevant; I will probably get into this subject more in a future post, but for now, the curation of music that exists here will be largely dictated by my mood.  Another thing: The grading system used here is the same as Robert Christgau's current one . This will almost c...

  Afternoon Tea The sight of the face that is our bough Is to be enough, and is enough to be. Together, we are under the dome now. We lay wishing to find what can endow An apparition across space to see The light of the face that is our bough. We make god’s equal from the sound, Dreaming of two-fold complimentary tea They would be serving at the dome now. We are fishing from the star-thunder’s brow That folds and makes the lovers’ city Out of the face that is our bough. Separating form and action, verb and noun Until the only peace we meet is in the hopeful sea Poured from the ghost that presupposes us. All the stars will coalesce this time around, And profess no good is the hope that burns quietly Using the petal that is her face’s bounds, To claim, We are under the dome now.