In the attic, I saw an old crate
Peeking through the wooden case
Is a plinth of red oak
I took it downstairs
Placed it on a granite table
Unboxed my humble find
Inside was a golden record
I plugged the thing
Placed the vinyl
On the silver platter
Turned the motor on
And let the cartridge dance

And no sound came out.


Drive Till The Gas Tank Hits Empty

Zero. Ten. Twenty. Thirty
Wood and leather, grip’s tightenin’
Forty. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy.
Light streaking, wind’s blowin’
Eighty, Ninety, Hundr’d
Road signs blur, engine’s roarin’
Hundr’d Ten, Hundr’d Twenty. Hundr’d Thirty
Road narrows, steering wheel’s rattlin’
Hundr’d Forty
Thrill’s gone, maniac howlin’
Hundr’d Fifty
Inhibitions lost, ride’s slippin’
Hundr’d Sixty. Zero