rd

record scratches
an aging turntable
we all go around
one more time
impressions of the groove
cut deep on our souls
the man labors
and bends to his work
a bottle of beer
on the work bench
it’s getting late now
and all are sleeping
upstairs
wrench in hand
he moans with the record
it’s the blues man
and he digs it
the sacrificial saint
turns his head upward
and closes his eyes
to feel the pain
of one note
pierces his heart
sweat rolls down
dirty hands
he drops the wrench
and picks up bottle
pulls back
free hand directing music
he stands to survey
old iron
but not as old as he
waiting for life
the spark to explode
in this promethean lab
someday
soon
and it shall rumble and growl
and clear it’s throat
and the man
he will mount the beast
and throttle it screaming
forward through terrified
neighborhoods
the dance of nine thousand
rpm
spinning like the record
inside his head
burning the distilled
prehistoric fire
from within
it is life
and life stretched out
on another spin
around the turntable.