Mia Anderson The Antenna For Mike Endicott The antenna is a growth not always functional in all people. Some can hoist their antenna with remarkable ease—like greased lightning. In some it is broken, stuck there in its old winged fin socket way down under the shiny surface never to issue forth. Others make do with a little mobility, a little reception, a sudden spurt of music and joy, an aberrant hope. And some—the crazies, the fools of God—drive around or sit or even sleep with this great thin-as-a-thread home-cobbled monkey-wrenched filament teetering above their heads and picking up the great I AM like some hacker getting Patmos on his toaster. And some, with WD40 or Jig-a-loo or repeated attempts to pry the thing up or chisel at the socket do not give up on this antenna because they have heard of how it works sometimes, how when the nights are clear and the stars just so and the new moon has all but set, the distant music of the spheres is transformative and they believe in the transformation. It is the antenna they have difficulty believing in. Montreal International Poetry Prize, 2013 [montrealprize/]
Posted on: Thu, 26 Sep 2013 06:18:35 +0000
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