Negligent Mirror

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If I open that door
Go in that room
Sit at that table
Across from those disinterested eyes
That look everywhere else

If I eat alone in silence
Just the click of my jaw
The imagined hum of a busy spider
Working on a web for me
To stick me here

If I explore the rooms
Still in dust
Tiny things in the air
Brushes and an armoire
An empty smell to it all

A weird sensation of a nose, a face close by mine, but lipless, and gone, or never there

Using a corner of a wall to scratch my own back

Someday they’ll come and ask, “What have you lost” and the only answer is: “Everything. And everybody.”

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This long night
Is waiting like whoever drove to the emergency room after the accident
Checking its watch at the sound of a red eye out of Kennedy

Do words have the power to unmake the damage? These words, tapped into a phone?

On the other side, consider what is done in each second, and which are left empty
While hovering over the bed watching the doctors put you back together
It’s the winter ritual that goes back
Back further than It’s a Wonderful Life,
Back to mammoths and meat and staring into a fire

Consider what is done in each second

At 7:15 the sun returns — see it climb over the houses and climb with it.

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There is an end of the line for everything.

I’m moving my office, which is in my basement, out to my garage, which I’ve been converting into a combination recording studio/office.

My basement office has almost twenty years of stuff from living in my current house, along with loads of other stuff that has followed me through my 57 years. And in those 57 years I’ve been a teacher, a designer, a photographer, a stage director, a record producer and engineer, a painter (of paintings), single, a husband, a dad. I have a lot of stuff.

Sixteen guitars at least…

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That’s ok if you’re not offended by a statue. Perhaps no one has put up the statue that offends you yet. Maybe something happened in your family’s past that was painful. Maybe someone killed your great great grandpa, or raped your great great grandma. Maybe someone burned the family house down. Maybe someone will put up a statue that reminds you of all those things. And you can walk by it everyday, constantly reminded of great great grandma’s rapist. And then, when you complain and don’t want to see it, someone will tell you, “Dude, that’s history. If we get…

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Winter is over and
stumbles into spring
the bees bumble
confused by the flowers up so early
confused by a poster of the girl
with a bouquet they never reach
a pile at her feet
of spent lovers
forever dowsing
as rains come and
take them

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In the early 1990’s I was freelance producing rock records. There were still big studios and big consoles. Digital recording was taking off but there was still plenty of nice fat analog tape. New, great sounding equipment was being released all the time, and you could still find vintage stuff gear with a bit of poking around. It was a great time to be an engineer.

And the big thing was drum sounds. Everyone was mic’ing the room and gating everything, and triggering samples and doing drum replacement… it was really cool. The Red Hot Chile Peppers released “Blood Sugar…

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There should be suns and filament clouds
Keening buildings and a rapture
Of hitherto unknown knowledge
A reveal of all that one should have done

Like a conversation with Fellini or Rilke, or Derrida — the bunch of us in a room with Joni Mitchell

Phones on, great laughs, scotch and smoking, everyone shooting video and texting whomever is in the twilight

It turns out I’m no more forward than I was at the end of the Harry Potters
Life is still more brushing the teeth than brushing the stars

The room is quiet but the exhaling of a radiator
There’s only little me here
Hearing a red eye on approach
Wondering what the fuck else must be done before the lights are out forever

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I’m a challenge tonight

She breathed out in her grey voice

Nails tapping on her thigh

A glance out the window

In the lights on a passing car

The trees twisting in a witches dance

She breathed us all in

Let us trickle out of her nostrils

And back into a puddle on the table

She got up

Walked out

Her enviable backside

The last thing seen

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Now we fall
Into a pattern we’ll have
The rest of our lives
Sit on couches
Fighting through movies
The rest of our lives
You get hurt and I get mad
The kid grows up I’m no longer dad
But I still creep
Into your bedroom
Every night
Mess your hair
Pat your backside
Never switch on the light
Go, grow up, I’ll just get old
That’s the last thing you’ll ever be told by me
Darling boy
Darling boy
Darling boy

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7th and 31st
Somewhere btw 25 and 45
That cigarette
That tan
That shine
That smell

Whatcha doing here, guy-o?
Where’s your mom gone to?
Hiding somewhere like a pregnant dog
I’ll betcha…

I’ll betcha if I was a pregnant dog someone’d stop
If I was small with a bent ear
Even if’s I had mange
Someone’d scoop me up with an old plastic bag
Feed me cookies
Take me someplace with a bath fer fucksake
Then post me on social media and shit

One of those guys could get knifed
Or keel over out of nowhere
That dirty tan hand on someone else’s cigarette butt
The shine and the smell worse than mange

Luke DeLalio

Luke is very maneuverable. He designs, paints, shoots, writes, teaches, plays, cooks, eats… more at

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