Driven by thunderhead convergence in the collective, the electric guitar hurls itself into the history of labor. It crashes into a hammered wall of extinctions and matriculates into peaks and life at sea.
Through photovoltaic bursts, it maneuvers around anthracite burns in the mouth of starlight, scientific vectors swiveling at the root of inception.
The guitar looks up from the medieval war, asking What did I do? It draws disorder out of suffering and fear. In the womb-swum communion of chances, it tenders electrical nerve, swaying with light through honey-hive prisms before rejoining the whole.
The last well-aimed guitar breaks up in suggestion. It comes back, drilling with nuclear searchlight the inability of air to utter a phrase without melting the poles.
The least touch of a live string can send out insistence, the longing or ache it has floating, resounding on waves that open through air with the guitar’s refusal to cower before present conditions.
The plugged-in guitar is part of the modern human body which doubles as a ritual instrument of blessing and maybe surrender. Cypress-lit with ionospheric holds, it resonates within body, releasing it within heart-pulse circulation as aging Cold War silos stay closed.