"On the wire, Boys." in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy
It isn't bragging since it's true: we made the first million-sale album in bluegrass history. Shouldn't something have changed? And did it some? On the wire, Boys, he'd say and at the right moment in the song we all lowered and tucked in our instruments, landed without a flutter, leaned in. That's how, he'd say, which was our cue to fall back. Bill, always the leader, made the rules. Plenty of old rules to remember, new ones to learn.
"On the wire, Boys." in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy What if what you had to have broke? What if it broke? You have got to answer or the winter comes and you are done for. There is not an app. There is no app for holdups. We are on our own, and one font size is as good as another in this situation.
Oh, how glad and happy when we meet, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy but "lavage" was in us—lavage—lavage—what a word, with lava in it—and that's—that's—it made you want to taste a picture of yourself, and it made you love the name Al, and until the word was done to us, until we were each other's canyon and coffin, we never would have thought about the ah in it, the humidity of that—would we have thought about that?—come on—come on—how?—we wouldn't've, couldn't've—come on—it's against the odds, a word going inside us that way when we were each and both re-cooled in the walk-in, and re-warmed near but not under the food-warming lamps which were amber—amber—no kidding—after death you stop exaggerating—and I wondered where was the cell, the shots we took, where was the dead trucker and what was The Product in her unit, and they repeated the process—lamps, walk-in, lamps—trying to save us--
The last things we said, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy |
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