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Atmosphere Press is a traditional press
Atmosphere press is a hybrid press. Atmosphere press is a CLMP member: the writers magazine and directory POETS & WRITERS and Writer’s Digest recognizes them.
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Kurt Vile Music Review
Kurt Vile
Harry Edgar Palacio
The beleaguered whims of Kurt Vile as he musters, “Standing on mount airy hill think about flying,” the run, catch, kiss satisfaction of velouria-like huffs, are a marvel to witness. This is a matchstick wire frame of witness fodder, the happenstance of real creation whispering between the crook of two wide gaps in the teeth. What can we say of Kurt Vile, he’s a shunned nomad, finally found his domain of followers; always the listener, seemingly trembling and fraught with delineated fast trains of thought, stacking records like boxes of lost volumes, and the shift is almost over so we collect the aria waiting for more tendrils and here in the spectrum like misspent lyrics of abortion and raised vipers in the lot of misconceived wobbly light, the crash and burn is a weight moving in flux like a cash register doling out change to the strange recluse in the shadows, we hand him out hat and then our head like marks of cynicism moving deftly backwards, a puff of smoke and mirrors bating the lash of mystic rivulets, what we had was a youth gone to the tide and we recount the sand crawling up our hips like stony diamonds so shiny and divided by the peak of our old town, the wavering whispers of old misspent electric shadows; as Kurt Vile Becomes a beacon of raised cities. Kurt Vile has a causal off the cuff demeanor, hey let’s all let the cards fall as they may and let the stars in midheaven decide if there’s really a point to all this entropy. The right night for a lost moment in time when we had old persuasion calling our name. A wand of fire rubbing the wrinkle of our hands, we lost whole vertebrae of shelf life, listening to Kurt Vile is a summoning to the seedy loft of strange waste bins in recoiled alleyways, the decadent storm of June signing in the name of Jesus, watching void-men talk to Anubis, as the reams of endless parchment unravels like gum paper, we cringe in unison with accompanying swell so content with the hapless cries of patience and mystique. We dig the obtuse well of forgiving, that visceral labyrinth of providence, before long there is a shallow eye swallowing the red hands of your father and touching the bowels of earth, we regret to speak so freely of long term ecstasy breathing down the neck, firm abbreviations for marrow burying the urn in its warm vacuum of ugliness, Kurt’s hometown is Lansdowne, Pa. He walks with a hip shy thrum. Sometimes knowing too much is not enough and we have to dig like mavericks for more ken. What the eye witnesses is far from real, although things will reflect the realities of a dogface from time to time. Hit the shower and step into the common room of misfits. The sweet hand to mouth decanter is sending us Morse coded sea waves like salt at the end of our tongues, the city is sweet and lacquered with sweat like a lost chance finally taken advantage of. Kurt Vile’s (watch my moves) is a waiting room for poltergeist. And we seem to think the tables are guests of fortune while thinking, sitting anxiously in a brute repose. Watch as you catch the moon-glade- Vile is a pronouncement of elegiast; walking shadow-man, what we find in the country of this music is the blues, and an iron clasp of folklore, like so much god telling us we’ve been here sitting on balconies wavering in repent, stone men haughty and punch-drunk, the afternoon is sex and second hand smoke, ill repute and victual, the breath burying us with arrhythmia, sometimes we fasten our lives to the safety belt of our sex like nude sad hands kissing stars and red eyes peer longingly into the dirt like shovels unearthing madness, magical realism and the skin of the Vedas crested on the leopard. Vile is a juniper tree with branches nested so rank. He has a hilt like airy, tribes that does forlorn tricks to the mind/ body. We wrestle with the spirit underneath it all. So to measure a call of abandon so gracious is terminal, it is iron and light. The moth foaming at the beak. The lantern chasing eternity. We hear god thrumming through his records so succinctly like an adroit phantom. We wonder where the mathematics of restraint worships the turbine of fire. This album has all the audacity of a field mouse praying to Amun Ra. Dozing off into netherworlds of light, pavements of pubis, hips and knobby knees, a history of touch, like iron- Does it hurt to hurt? We ask ourselves this question and kiss the wound.
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Resume
Harry Edgar Palacio is a writer and visual artist. He has been published in Hudson Valley Moca, Tule Review, Apiary, Storm Cellar, Quail Bell, Chronogram, Artist Catalogue, International Voices and elsewhere. Harry has a Chapbook called Ambrosia published by Finishing Line Pres and a full length book Sutras of Tiny Jazz published by Finishing Line Press. He has a Masters in Education from Manhattanville College. He has worked as an assistant director of a social justice center. Harry was an art teacher in the Dominican Republic. His parents are immigrants, his mother is from the Dominican Republic and his father is Colombian. He has performed his poetry at Embark Gallery, Peekskill Open Studios, One Billion Rising, and Eneregy Movement Center Studio. Harry has had gallery shows at the Energy Movement Studio, Robeson Gallery and H-Art Gallery.
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Twin Shadow
Twin Shadow is a pulsating beast buried by the weight of melodic richness and textures. Your Elvis song in my ear/that moonlit voice that i hear; incriminates. Pure brain sex.
Harry Edgar Palacio 