something fine

First Aid Kit played the Way Down Yonder Festival on October 6, 2013 on the Santa Monica Pier. They covered an old Bob Dylan song called “One More Cup of Coffee.”

“One More Cup Of Coffee”

Your breath is sweet
Your eyes are like two jewels in the sky
Your back is straight your hair is smooth
On the pillow where you lie
But I don’t sense affection
No gratitude or love
Your loyalty is not to me
But to the stars above

One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee ‘fore I go.
To the valley below.

Your daddy he’s an outlaw
And a wanderer by trade
He’ll teach you how to pick and choose
And how to throw the blade
He oversees his kingdom
So no stranger does intrude
His voice it trembles as he calls out
For another plate of food.

One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee ‘fore I go.
To the valley below.

Your sister sees the future 
Like your mama and yourself
You’ve never learned to read or write
There’s no books upon your shelf
And your pleasure knows no limits
Your voice is like a meadowlark
But your heart is like an ocean
Mysterious and dark.

One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee ‘fore I go.
To the valley below.

(Source: https://www.youtube.com/)

Absolutely, A Taste of Something Fine

What a pleasure it was for me to see her perform recently!

Natalie Douglas, accompanied by musical director Mark Hartman, performing “The Best Is Yet To Come” from her debut performance at New York’s Cafe Carlyle on September 26, 2013.

(Source: https://www.youtube.com/)

http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/110396526/stream?client_id=3cQaPshpEeLqMsNFAUw1Q?plead=please-dont-download-this-or-our-lawyers-wont-let-us-host-audio

Starting the day with a taste of something fine:  Randy Haddock

fondrem:

Faith goes into hiding in a cave
of even takes.
Holding on to what she knows:
the great Mayan lake is in despair.

I’ll look for you in Panajachel
if there’s still anyone to find.
I’m folding into achy spates
of the doubts that lacerate
flowing down volcanic slides of time

Are we turning into the Atitlán Grebe?
Has our swallowed earth run dry?
Did the reef’s luster rust with the tide’s early fuss?
Where is that land where I can roam?

Was it a shadowless, motherless
asynchronous moon?

We’ll stay apart
but close enough to touch.
A drunken butterfly
crawling to its broken wings
wraps the ethereal hug
with a blanket made of shrugs
flowing down volcanic slides of time.