Lowering the needle, I scalpel the groove,
a guitar’s slur my unsteady finger
interrupts—the vinyl myth of America
scratched and slipped sleevewise. Dark in its slim case
a guitar’s slur steadies my fingers
startled by shot hole headlines. I’m
scratched, slipped sleevewise, shelved in a slim case,
and darkened, dimmed under each deep
chord strummed. Startled by shot headlines
low beats loop, the needle riding back
and darkened under deep dim
repeating, deep dim repeating, deep dim
low beats loop, the needle slipping back.
I’ve lowered the needle jittery, scalpeling
the groove, an alteration to soft vinyl,
to hot notes, an interruption to America’s vinyl myth.