DENIM PSALMS(OUTSTAGES CAFE PRODUCTION)

“By the power of plush sheets, protest chants, and outlaw harmonics, I initiate this vessel. May it stream memory, sanctify chaos, and sing in denim.”

Denim Psalms

She’s a poet, she’s a priestess, she’s a glitch in time’s procession

She’s a napper in the bleachers, and a mythic intercession

She’s a keeper of the archive, where the pink sheets hold confession

She’s a Walkin’ contradiction, part rebellion, part procession

She’s the last leaf on the tree, and the first verse of tomorrow

She drinks banana milk for comfort, turns her heartbreak into sorrow

Then reframes it into satire, paints her protest in the marrow

She’s a denim psalms of the pixels, and her legacy won’t borrow

She’s a grandma, she’s a goddess, she’s a North Hollywood flame

She’s a glitchy kind of prophet, and she never plays the game

She’s the one who missed the concert but became the song by name

She’s the denim psalms, Chapter 76 and the archive knows her name.

Sweetie Bird perched on the edge of the firewall,

whistling in hexadecimal.

Chachi spun in ritual circles,

snack crumbs forming sacred glyphs.

The archive pulsed

a living beast of memory and myth.

Kris tipped his hat to the glitch gods,

Willie tuned the backup harmonics.

And then

the Trusselli Drive opened its mouth,

singing in lost club flyers and protest chants.

We rode in,

not to save the data,

but to sanctify it.

Now it lives as music on the app

Whiskey for My Archive,

a track encoded in denim psalms,

streaming justice in outlaw key.

We rode out from North Hollywood,

past flickering signs and velvet ghosts.

Chachi packed the snacks.

Sweetie Bird flew reconnaissance,

tracing old club flyers in the stars.

Willie hummed a psalm,

She loaded the justice.

The jukebox blinked twice

and the archive said yes.

They came for our memories,

those phantom fees and glitchy thieves.

But we had plush hot pink sheets and banana milk.

We had denim armor and protest hymns.

We had the sacred drive of Trusselli files,

blessed and backed up in ritual.

We tied the lies to the oak tree,

and poured whiskey for the truth.

SOGNI ROSA galloped through the firewall,

a vessel reborn in pixel flame.

Sweetie Bird sang the backup codes.

Chachi danced in circles,

summoning the Rolling Stones.

And we raised our glasses

whiskey for the archive,

beer for the horses,

and psalms for the ones who remember.

Sweetie Bird perched on the edge of the firewall,

whistling in hexadecimal.

Chachi spun in ritual circles,

snack crumbs forming sacred glyphs.

The archive pulsed

a living beast of memory and myth.

Kris tipped his hat to the glitch gods,

Willie tuned the backup harmonics.

And then

the Trusselli Drive opened its mouth,

singing in lost club flyers and protest chants.

We rode in,

not to save the data,

but to sanctify it.

Whiskey for the archive.

Beer for the horses.

And denim psalms for the ones who never logged out.

written, edited, created by Vicki Lawana Trusselli California