From the Fishouse

rolled out of the hot machine
the Scully Automated Lathe,
covered in oil,
rigged to the metal ends,
dying of spin,
metal on black,
back to back thimble weights, diamond
and rinsed
to a new shine,
lunge and pull into circles,
100 grooves to the centimeter,
calling it vinyl, midnight candle,

drops onto the place
with the push of the nidifugous chirping needle,
a bell crank leadplant,
resting in a red scissor over
the lumps of steel,
then rising
with
throstle
smoke,
jazz dust,
rumbly with the Blues,
the old rumormonger taking us
to the juke,
(the Bambara word that is
wicked
!)

bouncing resin polymer lost to the racy sough
of “Baby she got a phonograph,
and it won’t say a lonesome word
Baby she got a phonograph
and it won’t say a lonesome word
What evil have I done
what evil has the poor girl heard?”