Radio Pantoum

by Noah Kucij

 

I’m not talking about some golden age
when one box was enough, one big ass cherry
cabinet, brass knobs, glass, transistors,
wires, tubes, the whole brood gathered.

When one box wasn’t enough, one big ass cherry
bomb went off in the middle of culture.
Strings, transistors – brooders gathered
over the shrapnel of a smashed guitar.

A Remington went off and the middle of culture
like a hand-to-hand-passed mosher hovered
over the shrapnel of a smashed guitar,
looked for its face in that shard-crazy mirror.

Hand-to-hand new sounds were passed, discovered.
Sunday nights on some faint fuzzy channel
reveler-mourners listened for a mirror
in each wanton jockey’s patched-up voice.

Some nights I still go scanning for that channel.
Though now I have the whole sky in a box,
I pan each jockey’s stony bed of a voice
for one fleck of the gold of Now hear this.

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