Rescued from the dumpster, that old turntable had no way of knowing what it was in for… (a poem)

Wrote this last night.

Held back with rubber bands
chopsticks
and paper clips
the backward scratches
of polyvinyl silence
found unlikely homes
in anomalous spaces
of impolite company
and figures hunched
heads bowed in concentration
where the tidal wash
of lead-in grooves
filled oceans
swam with backwards 4-tracks
and chance-operated radio waves
to soothe the troubled soul

(28 September 2018—posted September 29th)

 


 

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