Mad lines being crossed these days. People all popping out (ikk, don’t even look up “popping out” on Google Images — use Bing or Yahoo! instead). Producers, DJs, Synthesis. Like, since I started this paragraph, my phone *currently plugged into this laptop* is making an infrequent and agitating notification noise. :( Those guilty-pleasure guitar albums like, “but it’s guitar music.” And then you start reading a Ben Seretan review that beings with the word “Mad.” MAD! Feel this real quick:
So, imagine if you were Benjamin Seretan’s backyard neighbors above the Cottonwood Tree. You’re cooking that good-good too, like pepper, onions, [protein], garlic, spice-rack, oil — “What that boy doing at there, now?” The whole family stop eating salad and soup, and Benjamin Seretan jamming out to the entirety of “Cottonwood Tree” on his headphones, a tripod [filming] slightly askew from every family member’s viewpoint; so maybe this boy having some kind of episode, and it’s okay to watch for safety, but “We better let him ride this one out.”
Knowing Benjamin Seretan is a New York City(ish?) resident, it’s hard to figure out — as a listener — his inspiration while experiencing this location’s daily atmosphere. I find this excruciatingly admirable. Shame on me for entering the review, but I very much enjoy witnessing and wallowing within the hustle-and-bustle of New York: sitting and experiences. But it makes sense to me. Therefore, in honor of Benjamin Seretan’s talented mantra-esque singing, melody praise, vibratory resonance, harmony chi, classic-style [I’ve heard it before, but I love Kendrick Lamar too, so wtf] album, a blue moon yin-yang, and straight up posi-tude presented within Bowl of Plums…
Flowing stands in the wind, just hearing the crumple of plastic. Saliva drizzling down the tips before May’s mouth. Collecting a one-winged dust-angel upon the linoleum with happiness. The smell of wood chips, but also grass if May dips into the yard during her 6:30 PM walk. Hide like a vest or hat or slipper set, so when people ask, the reply is always, “Oh, that’s Ms. May.” *smile* while combing black and white hairs that form a malformed caterpillar resting in a U-shape from front to back to front. White shoes. White lashes. Sometimes a string during [number two] along Port Blvd. Not a fan of showers.
Always on point (but as thin as, too), Anne believes her outfit reflects the placement of follicles upon her scalp. Physique is the main reason why we all need a stress meter on Fitbits or iJogs, but w/e. Dyed black and looking thicker after a coloring session. Only one good wedding photo — in Anne’s eyes — so selecting them all is purpose-driven. Brushes on the toilet tank clumped with Locks Of Love. All the different hair care products that probably claim more than anything else works. Even YouTube is claiming patches. When the only solution is providing that *smile* because nobody else gonna shit you out again. Nobody else gonna give a shit about her, either. So it’s the wispy-do that shows keep and earnestness, stress and love that warms all that anxiety into a hug Anne provides that’ll never leave, miles away from it.
When Michelle sleeps, her darker hairs are always shadowing the contours of her shape, so it’s like an image of her image within the silhouette. Frolicking hairs across the tips of her ankles intentionally left so the tops of her socks won’t rash a line. Kneecap caps also shadowed, but a bit glowing, barely covered by the blanket. Michelle’s panty-line snarling out an ingrown hair or two. Along the ear lines, solar hairs jut. An infrequently groomed uni-brow. Awake, she claims she can grow a better mustache than most men. “If I tried” she’d say. At 5 AM, Michelle is a masterpiece asleep, enjoying the tail end of an REM cycle that transitions into a blissful stretch.
Upon stiff arms, Meta’s grey and fading hairs frolic in the air-conditioner breeze at peace. Her eyes closed as if she were asleep, eye lashes dainty like the curtains that’ve hung from her bedroom windows since 1969. Meta’s perfectly quaffed hair firm and immaculate, as if she knew this were the night she’d pass, like every night for the past few years. A composed, withered scalp rests as the foundation of her dyed-blonde hairs, roots strong, and determination to continue impressing abound. Blonde like the watered scotch given to her the night before, like every day and night, for health purposes. The memory of her laughing and her hair fluttering. When Monet Maker sent weed-chocolate to Meta’s house, and she took a crack at it, 98 years young, and her hair ruffled perfectly, progressively throughout Jeopardy and Wheel and [sleep]. A symphony of strings.