Saturday, December 17, 2011


Record Store

Has anything bad ever been stored in a bin,-
forgetting for the moment
confined loonies, in for dark deeds or failure to
comply-not potatoes, say
or the solo mittens and knit caps living lives
of quiet desperation
waiting in vain in dark grade school Lost and Founds for
their young indifferent owners.
Bins packed tight with used record albums organized
alphabetically, canted
cardboard jackets, nothing up their sleeves save for sounds
committed to memory,
on the first hearing. Flat, carved, gleaming disks shot through
with notes, chords and one, perfect
hole through the center of all that noise and messy
creation. I sort through the
bins, a kid again, fingers slower, clumsier,
oiled with that fine patina
of filth, dust and grease, badge of honor bestowed by
Sam the Record Man thirty
years ago for dogged perserverance, combing
the bins for hidden treasure.
Now, pawing the wares in this new store in my own
neighborhood, flanked by youth hip
to wax, adrift upon the thinnest of pretexts,
hunting a pristine Kind of
Blue, some Bob Wills or John Fahey, I part mossy
layers. The bins release an
appeal to my senses, blunted by the perfect
cool of pure digital sound.

December 14, 2011

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