Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Hold It By The Edges, Man!

Ten Records I Want On A Desert Island

There are no outlets for one thing, walls
if there were any, little more than gaps
between reeds, a fifty foot extension
cord useless except perhaps as an orange
SOS paid out across the beach, too
elegantly understated to draw
attention from the air, the phonograph
and other components I remembered
to pack curiosities for cargo
cults, rectilinear gods with dangling
cords sitting in silent judgment atop
stacked coconuts while I hold a gospel
record by its thin edge madly angling
toward the noonday sun.  Sacrificially
minded faithful nod politely to my  
best rendition of Pop Staples, closing
the ring a little tighter with every
verse, the most discriminating among
them barely stifling their laughter, passing
my nine other selections hand to hand. 

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