03.13 – slow,
like a Hammond starts,
like a Hammond starts rising out of a pit
in a dreadful hall in a seaside town that was last alive in ’52.
Wooden and flat, like a hammer striking an organ chord,
a chord in the throat that’s wooden and flat.
As the pipes constrict the voice shoots up on a geyser of air,
like a geyser of air sticks the voice to the roof where it can’t get down.
Like the roof is a vault. The cauliflower lungs start to paddle and heave
like the cross-thread gears of a mountain bike. The larynx strings out
like the notes of a harp, like the notes of the harp that someone’s plugged,
like someone’s plugged the notes of a harp with a glottlestop.
Like the neck is a tumbling fight of cats on a 3-D screen in a movie town.
Like a 3-D town screens a fight of cats. Like we all join in,
the belly squeezes and flaps to catch up, the torso becoming
a one-man band, like the um-pah-pom, like the cymbals’ slam,
like the um-pah-pom of the 1812. Like the body explodes the 1812
in Glastonbury mud. Like Glastonbury mud is a fight of cats.
Subsides, like a rope unknots, like a rope unknots like an Indian snake,
like an Indian snake falls back to rope.