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Is There Another Language?

by Gezellig Records

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on election night, it is late when the gathering, that is no longer a party, ends. The walk home mostly silent rainy November night has no concern for union’s fractured state it waits for morning, washes light away but fails to consider that darkness cannot be safe you are not safe television warns. the ocean is violent, even if its fury arrives late hold sense of fear, do not lull it away remember hurricane feeling: ignore the wind, pretend we are at a party don’t listen to voice, it is easy to numb horrified state because after storm there is always silence post-disaster, survivors languish in silence forget that they ever felt safe help often arrives months late appalled at the state of affairs, questions why they (survivors, mothers) did not go away they (survivors, mothers) say : this is home & existence has always been greater than president, politics, or party the night of the storm: I am going to a party not yet angry or silent when I arrive, the host takes my thing away I leave with a man, who does not feel un-safe but familiar. where are my clothes: is the only thing I ask in my dream-state later, I tell my mother that reality and nightmare are indistinguishable as of late I am late this time, it’s not for a party “I will call it the thing that my body begot”. The State does not listen, tells me to keep silent the thing drifting inside is safe I beg to for them to please send it away terror cannot comprehend (away) it sits heavy, stays late. afterwards, it is not easy to reclaim the sensation of safe, whether at party or home, but it is nice to know that this state of unrest and anger is ours, inalienable, safety rebukes silence storm comes during party, that’s when we realize it is much too late. to predict current state of emergency would have been a miracle. the sound of stunned silence takes my breath away. it is difficult to fathom that one day again we will feel safe
A shadow rides a pale horse along the tripwire of dawn hustling bouquets of nightshade to children who no longer see their breath under their fathers' masks. The horse keeps a steady gate in the only direction that counts like a clock built to measure blank moments it could keep time, but where would it keep it? The shadow is a little more than a secret, like the moment a flame bites the skin like where you are between two thoughts. The outer masks crumble off of those who take the shadow's offerings lungs moving in ways almost forgotten, in a moment of clarity to visceral it seemed like truth. The children, now with one mask left, scatter into a garden of continents while the shadow and the horse ascend like a call into the rising sun.
His hand rests against the express train window, gray sideburns juxtapose his brown suede coat, as lines under his eyes peer down in shame when the train stops. He sneaks a sip of beer from a blue koozie. I wish I could reach across the seat with a Suntory to say “Kanpai,” that might ease the tension in his face. Our knees touch and we cringe simultaneously in the window’s reflection. He quickly turns up the beer can and hides it, but I want to tell him to enjoy this moment before he arrives home, relish the silence and the sights. His black attaché hides his secret against his gray wool slacks from the woman next to him playing on her IPAD. I try to rest my arm against the window and nod, to signal a bridge of understanding between cultures. Stress reflects the same in both of us, and I hope that his mind truly relaxes sometime this weekend.


All proceeds from this compilation will go to benefit the American Civil Liberties Union.

More information included in the .pdf liner notes as part of the download.


released January 20, 2017

Gezellig Records 2017
Curated by Peter McCarville & Ben TO Smith
Mastered by Brad King
Artwork by Elisa Dore
Lettering by Paige Berry
Thanks to Trey Boyte


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Gezellig Records Knoxville, Tennessee

Gezellig Records is a small, independent record label based out of Knoxville, Tennessee, releasing music from artists all over the world.

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