#resonator #banjo #harmonica #poetry

Nick (@nfshakespeare) and I had some great conversations— including some about poetry, and so he sent me this poem to collab, suggesting he could really hear it as a spoken-word tone-poem over a resonator (which he knew I play).

I first laid down the spoken word track, and then brought in my banjo (4-string tenor) to lend the key, rough rhythm and structure (3 chords). I brought in the resonator next… the two tracks sort of loping along staying roughly in sync. Then the mournful nature of the poem and the music led me to my harmonica. All of this was nice… and all was live-recorded on 4 tracks, but nothing was in the lower register. After a bit of playing around with Suno’s studio feature (which allows you to prompt new tracks to accompany live-recorded ones) I added a smooth cello track to finish it off. So, mostly non-ai for all of you wonderful purists, and a touch of ai-produced cello on top for all you interested experimenters.

Thanks so much to Nick for the wonderfully cold, season-appropriate poem, the resonator challenge and the invite to collab!

A distant symphony of snowblowers gnaws at the morning metal teeth chewing through my apology for last night.

Fresh snow on the ground, already being violated, thrown in high, glittering arcs that fall back down as slush.

Chain-link fences hunched over, like rusted out old men in unheard prayer. December light limps across the roads To an inflatable Santa bowed to the drift, half-buried, permanently waving.

The sky’s the color of tired dishwater. Cold smells like nickels and old keys. Kids practice their joy indoors like it’s something you rehearse before the door busts open.

In my apartment the radiator knocks like it’s got a warrant. The tree from the gas station leans against the wall like it’s tired of pretending it grew up somewhere beautiful.

Outside, the snowblowers start again clearing, carving, correcting while the fences keep their silence. I pour another drink and toast the white blanket, covering up the beer cans and cigarette butts in the gutter like it was doing the city workers a favor

the snow, the machines, the white ground already bruised by boots. Christmas hums on the wires. Bright. Electric. Unblinking.

And somewhere, in a house too loud with laughter, a barcalounger sits empty while the snow keeps falling soft as something no one’s listening to.

Copyright 2026, Nick Torres