Ode to the Mixtape
In the eighties there were sacred nights
spent with a cassette birthing wastebaskets
full of crumpled papers
of possibilities. Remember,
it wasn’t only about the songs, but
their order was just as imperative
to translate feelings through music.
When the low-grade tape would occasionally rip,
sending static disharmony from the tape player
while supplying a plethora of nooses
for the listener to disentangle bit by bit.
The hours of reeling would begin
in earnest as spools were spun and respun,
and no matter the precision of the wasted time
spent fixing the discombobulation, the tape
would still be magically mangled
at the best part of every song.
Springhouse springsforth bursting sudden Aprilair
to rescue the deadened Spirits from the dismally frozen
cotton skies of prison-colored clouds
made of wounded wicker and withered wisteria.
Not soon enough, plants and orioles awaken
and watch as the cinereous skies
are bleached in blue and boldly blonde
locks of life begin to begin. Pistols are removed
from foreheads and put back
into the hollowed-out bibles
from which they came. A tiny
portion of leverage and pressure plays
an enormous role in whether
a sapient and sensitive creature’s blood
continues to flow in its fleshy cage, or not.