O hail the mighty OM of meditation Bearded men in robes chanting incantations Sitting circular legs crossed and staring at the flame of a candle as it dances on its wick Make America Drone Again O hail the mighty drone of reverberation As the OM circulates in the hollows across this nation In the chest-cavity through the lungs, the caverns of the mouth OM begins in the mind to the heart, travels north to south Make America Drone Again Open fly the windows let the wind blow and howl screaming through the gorge Make America Drone Again This drone is a natural thing a waterfall And when the creek overflows will you drive out to visit? Slowly, methodically careful through the ice and snow Listen to your tires as they spin and they whirr When the creek overflows will you drive through the snow to visit? Will you drive out to save your cat? And your dog? And when the creek overflows and the bridge collapses will you find another route to get to me? Or will you strap on snowshoes and trudge through the powder break through the ice to come to me? Bring me a mulled cider— a cask of warm spiced apple cider to glow in our spirit When the river is overcome with salmon swimming upstream for their lives Sewing their eggs with their egos milky white cream Filters through the stream ice cold sex, will you come to me then beat a path through barriers of slush Listening to your footsteps as you clomp clomp clomp through yuck and freeze listen to the drone of work The drone of effort, the drone of one footstep in front of the other, and repeat— over and over Repeat, step, repeat step, repeat, step, will you come to me then? Make America Drone Again America drones with the swelter of heat the frigid of cold, the grinding of jackhammers and cashregisters closing, glass towers of success America drones with the pounding of nails the sawing of boards, and brittle dry bones buried deep and out of sight Sinews and guts, kidneys and liver arteries stretched across the Columbia river O drone, as droplets fall one by one dripping down the length of an icicle Gradually increasing its size reflecting the starlight to visions of nebulas and further galaxies Distant aquatic out beyond us lightyears away The drone of piano string plucked against the night with a nylon tipped drumstick Mysterious, vibrating against the atmosphere, a call to be responded by gulls far off out at sea Flying with the moonlight reflecting off their wings, soaring up and down with vibrations motion and pitch arching into the ozone Make America Drone Again
IAN FREDERICK CATON lives in Vancouver WA, which most certainly is not Portland. He grew up in East San Jose in the 80’s and started his first rock band when he was 12. Everything he writes with the very rare exception being some pieces about his Mother, and even some of those as well, are about music in one way or another. His mother was his first Junior Choir director, and now he too by a series of rational events has become the choir director at his church. He also has a Bandcamp page where he creates drones and noise.
MAXIMUS 