First in a while, and a long line I hope

Cody was pretty upset. He sent me and the rest of us some pissy text messages. Greens and yellows like the Costa Rica shirt I gave him, off my back, for his birthday last year. A savannah maybe, and some protective, electric or nuclear fencing guarding who knows what. What lay inside is lost now. And it looked like something out of the show Lost. Or The X-Files when Moulder is in Costa Rica. Pretty skimpy.

Hosts Samantha Sigmon and Martin Bemberg chat it up with Gwendolyn Wind, up and coming Queen of the Scene. In this episode we discuss the local music scene and other stuff. Recorded, produced and engineered by Martin Bemberg of villewave records.

We Must Tend Our Garden

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         I spend declining days beneath

the to and fro of sunshine

on one of two verandas.

I lose at chess with heaven is pals,

and when my sweet-she comes to visit,

sweet-she sits with me in wicker --

sweet-she leans in close

as not to impede.

I have gardens to tend

and so does she.

We are the gardens

we tend for free.

Hers is a nursery

for gratitude.

Blessings counted sow the seed,

contentedness to water her  

compassion flowers.

Come the bloom: how they grow;

how she grows; how she plucks

its fruit to fill her pantry further,

pantry of a soul.

She feeds me from it

when we wake, and when

we wake I make her breakfast.

In my garden I grow me.

I am the seeds and the shit beneath,

am the fertilizer. I harvest all the me I need

for free.

          She is here on wicker

and I am thinking where to move

my queen in gridded battle,

basking in the sun and battle

and heaven is pals,

when the living queen leans close.

I tend to what I tend to

and she to what she to:

leans in close,

as not to impede.

We must tend our gardens

And know our seeds.