Byline: Sins of Reverb

Buford Youthward

Despite the telling, the listener ultimately decides.

Good, evil, right, wrong, apathy, empathy and all the drama and tragedy in between, the residual effects of an emotional outpouring are like twisted and delicious shadows sold on Fridays.

Beginnings, middles and ends all matter. Non-linear input still arrives and populates context at discriminate times. Don't think your collage skills are so mad hot, they can be better. So some seasons stand in and seasoning gets applied, samples get sold.

Like an imaginary burglar providing a bit of nice meat for the house dog, sharp kids stake out a dull life in order to find something soft and sinister. After the torchlight red on sweaty faces, after the frosty silence in the gardens, the reverb in the prisons and palaces, we can't escape the sense of place that informs us.

The written word, the painted word finds its audience as its authors' moan, groan shift their bones, sing long songs, and listen for the glisten in the letters.

With a second wind, the strong and weak deal with feelings of forced new chapters, the benchmarks of discomfort. I hear the story in the songs and letters, all fashions staging the heroes' action. Laughing, knowing all rock and rollers wind up pushing baby strollers, real life long term exposure.

The poetry in the negative space is appealing while the positive composition is the basis for all judgment, criticism. If you encounter a concrete poem typographically shaped like a hammer using the words bam bam bam bam, you needn't bother read every single bam. Nor should you.

Guitars, guns, dirt bikes and graffiti shaped my world gone mad, merging sensation and insight. We can't repeal original sin but only try to offset the copies. I sit tongue tied trying to decide what is more important, reading writers or books.

The good, evil, right, wrong is meaningless. Intentions defunct. Write for the right reasons, in a way that is right and all will be alright. I've been listening long for that story. I'll let you know when I hear something.

Read more in Byline

Art Crimes Front Page