i am not listening to your classic rock.

i am not unmoved by that box of records,

but i am not abandoning my position,

taken one evening in 1978,

at that party where we jockeyed for control over the turntable,

and in the immediacy of the supreme familiar,

the poorly pressed vinyl was loosed and spread; a field of chaos 

on the filthy shag-rugged floor.

thrown into relief

underfoot the tracks intractable retracted trajectories transparent

visible only 

to the naked 

eye of the needle resets onto the narrow echoed ghost waves,

bullets flown into glory returned.

refrains reframe

sacred profanity for the marshaled mercenaries to receive 

through the mouth of the witch.

i’m not precious.

the looping ear worm consumes live cortex with dead context.

i remain still

intent on divination

the earthward pull 

of that that lowercase, no-place-like-home solvent:

the juxtaposed, black noise specter

of water flowing underground.