The earth is a drum, they say. Shrouded by magnetic halo that beats and oscillates in traceable resonance. All heaven can bear witness to the sonorous vibrance of our globe and mark that claim as truth. Who then is bold enough to strike its batter-head? Who hears the metronomic thrum at the heart of all earthbound life and marking the tempo, plays in rapturous consonance? Who tunes the harps and lyres of all lowing beasts, to blaze euphonic across the glowing firmament? The Outfit, The Outfit, The Outfit, The Outfit. Strum, and strike, and sing, in tune, in joy, in love. Mark well the name. They who lift the bowing head of every grieving flower. They who coo that unvanquished animal hymn to every dog, and ox, and muskox, and muskdog. That well-shod fiefdom of unmatched capacity. That feckful gang beholden to spirit alone. If child is father to the man, then what cosmic nursery sired such pleiadic songsmiths? The trueborn enemies of all tuneless brutality. The wreckers of every false rural minstrel and showboat lout of ill-repute. The Outfit, The Outfit, The Outfit, The Outfit. The crater is rent, and surfeit chasmic beasts quake and roil in naked lust for the spoils of beauty. Who strikes the silver chord that shudders their miasmic vaults? Who heralds the balm of love? If music be the fuel of lungs then pray on this. The Outfit, The Outfit, The Outfit. If all the words of joy should shed their syllabic countenance, would they not still resonate at this same frequency? If distillate love made aural and amplified struck every unbidden ear, would it not blossom with this same audible bouquet? Here then is the document – the evidence, the proof, the truth, the real thing, the one thing, the only thing. Daniel Romano’s Outfit, now and always. Call it communion. Call it a rhapsody. Call it Cobra Poems. Go on. Dig it.