RADIOS SING HEAVEN: II

I glow with abandon, thirst,
and pray to those murky
rough voices behind the hedges
of the choir; those bitten,
spindley things warped for lack
of light and exposure, who sing
with voices of clear underground
streams, rattle roots in their
blackened hands—Oh, give me
something! All those starved
and bug-eyed, ferocious
with neglect, who are lost
in the naming and so grow stronger.

RADIOS SING HEAVEN: III

Let the sky close down quarters.
Let the pumps and oxygen masks sputter.
Fear, paint me red, scurry my eyebrows
up to lightening rods. Caffeine, kick in,
blossom my capillaries. May my blood sing
wide as the Lincoln Tunnel, a fierce tide
flushing out the system.

RADIOS SING HEAVEN: IV

Let us count the heartbeats of the living
and keep time by this to the Motown of Heaven.
That Wall of Sound Phil Spector envisioned,
still coming out of cheap radios,
on Formica countertops, on oldies stations.
Hear that? That song made me feel today
that I was drowning, and was glad for it.

RADIOS SING HEAVEN: V

Somewhere, a bunch of sequined
black girls from Detroit are still singing,
their hair all curled alike, rigid waves
black as wax or glittering tarmac
after a rain. Singing the honey-sweet
failure of romance, so sweet
you want to start crying.

Like they were saying goodbye
to their childhoods, singing
to their crazy-mad boyfriends
who leave them for some stupid
teenage highway, Harleys, hot chrome
throbbing between thighs. But tears
streak the grease of his mechanic’s face.
He still has that song pounding in his head.
He still dreams hopelessly of deliverance.

RADIOS SING HEAVEN: VI

Hear that? Radios sing heaven,
rising off the dashboards
like a cheap hymn.
We’ll all keep time, clumsy-fingered,
and I’ll come back, I’ll sing along,
I’ll signify the air with my talking.

GURU NO

May you pray for the closing of jaws.
May you pray for such a thing.
May you pray for the thin forgiveness
that exists between lines that haven’t
been written or spoken yet.

May you pray that this doesn’t even begin.

NOTHING BLUES

I got no problem saying nothing.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, down
to the Isle of Sunder.

I got no problem saying nothing.
It’ll keep me company,
like no other.

I got no problem saying nothing.
With seeds split wide,
and no place to gather.

I got no problem saying nothing.
A wet, black bough
gasping in the ether.