Radio BY TOM CLARK Don’t hurt the radio for Against all Solid testimony machines Have feelings Too Brush past it lightly With a fine regard For allowing its molecules To remain 100% intact Machines can think like Wittgenstein And the radio’s a machine Thinking softly to itself Of the Midnight Flower As her tawny parts unfold In slow motion the boat Rocks on the ocean As her tawny parts unfold The radio does something mental To itself singingly As her tawny parts unfold Inside its wires And steal away its heart Two minutes after eleven The color dream communicates itself The ink falls on the paper as if magically The scalp falls away A pain is felt Deep in the radio I take out my larynx and put it on the blue chair And do my dance for the radio It’s my dance in which I kneel in front of the radio And while remaining motionless elsewise Force my eyeballs to come as close together as possible While uttering a horrible and foreign word Which I cannot repeat to you without now removing my larynx And placing it on the blue chair The blue chair isn’t here So I can’t do that trick at the present time The radio is thinking a few licks of its own Pianistic thoughts attuned to tomorrow’s grammar Beautiful spas of seltzery coition Plucked notes like sandpaper attacked by Woody Woodpecker The radio says Edwardian farmers from Minnesota march on the Mafia Armed with millions of radioactive poker chips The radio fears foul play It turns impersonal A piggy bank was smashed A victim was found naked Radio how can you tell me this In such a chipper tone Your structure of voices is a friend The best kind The kind one can turn on or off Whenever one wants to But that is wrong I know For you will intensely to continue And in a deeper way You do Hours go by And I watch you As you diligently apply A series of audible frequencies To tiny receptors Located inside my cranium Resulting in much pleasure for someone Who looks like me Although he is seated about two inches to my left And the both of us Are listening to your every word With a weird misapprehension It’s the last of the tenth And Harmon Killebrew is up With a man aboard He blasts a game-winning home run The 559th of his career But no one cares Because the broadcast is studio-monitored for taping To be replayed in 212 years Heaven must be like this, radio To not care about anything Because it’s all being taped for replay much later Heaven must be like this For as her tawny parts unfold The small lights swim roseate As if of sepals were the tarp made As it is invisibly unrolled And sundown gasps its old Ray Charles 45 of Georgia Only through your voice
Posted on: Thu, 22 Aug 2013 11:41:01 +0000
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