Turn The Dial
Dead on the dial, the static silences the reverberation of AM radio voices, so far faded into past airwaves, like cotton stringed ghosts. Distorted birds glitch in and out of the broadband solar dish. Candy bowl for the soul. The distortions come clear and make sense now. Fully intact from sound shards that fell on the floor, shimmering in the reclining sun laying across my floor, like a lover high on music and horny for a new song. My song. My words. The band plays on, and on. Static won't take them away. There's always a new channel to experience during different times of the day, as eastern European voices say good night when I awake in the morning.