Cowgirl says to the other cowgirl, “Hey, other cowgirl, is this a joke?” The sheriff nods her cap to the waitress and a courtesy of floral. Near asleep, a drifter: a head of cattle and some map whisking away from her hand. Along the prairie afloat, that old, sand-stained, sun-dried parchment of directions. Against a cactus’ left bicep spikes this map that burns into plumes of fumes. Spurs attached to the feet of our narrator tapping bones; strikes a chord. Sun Araw inhales the rest of this map and hallucinates a pathway to: THE SADDLE OF THE INCREATE.
A crystal ball
A star; A trail of stars
“A Golden Boot”
A strut into
Precipice off the beaten path that y’all’s party beat-in on the way here. Travel a straight and narrow of colors completely mutating A soundtrack of Sun Araw’s triumphant continuum:
♠ trying something new, no matter how kitschy
∇ when you thought Zappa or Miles Davis took things too safe
∂ communication to and through music without complete direction
Β clever call-and-response transposed in an evolution of harmony
∅ straight-chill in territory of finding one’s sell
It’s morning. Harness in. Strap up. Ride on out brave into today.