Crux
Back then, I played the animated
version of myself
every week in a hot
control room, which
was just a room
with no windows
at the far edge
of a vast school. Dusty, I said
into the mic
every week as I slid
levers, dropping
my mixture into anyone’s
ears. Every week I’d shove
discs into
players. This was
back when
the sonorous storm
came from the radio, not
a phone, not whatever
you can keep in your
palm, pocket, in your
ears. I didn’t talk
much, but somehow my breath
traveled out to each car
and ran off
to the planet. It
felt volatile to
backtrack the tense
sweat of tunes
with metered
emotion. That was all
I’d let tremor, those sonic
adjustments as time
counted down
its deep wisdom, conspicuous
enough. I don’t
miss it, how I murmured
vibrations,
careless, as though
it could
forever go on, the sound
still loose in my hands.