After Jake died, I couldn’t listen to Radiohead. Because I could hear him in the undersong. And then I couldn’t not listen to them. Because I could hear him in the undersong.
Lost email thread: A running back and forth about the shows in St. Louis and Denver. Song titles with a series of exclamation points. Thom Yorke and band refracted a thousand times over in sharded mirrors that hung down, translucent. An eye here. A bobbing bald pate drumming. Thom flapping like a Prospect in his leather cut. They played The Amazing Sounds of Orgy!!! Can you believe it?
After Jake died, there was an essay about the last time I saw Jake, poems solicited and written while on my elbows, gratitude for a grinder, a sieve. There was silence. Then I started to listen again.
Gagging Order over and over and then How to Disappear Completely. Move along; there’s nothing left to see. I’m not here. This isn’t happening.