Decades ago, that data transferred
onto the tiny drive, the voice straining
from the still-forming throat.
The mouth moving in unfamiliar ways,
the soundwaves recreating
the crackle of the cheap microphone
and the warbling, wobbling vocal tones.
The innocent lyrics
tell tales of the ice cream man
coming down the street,
the guitar out of tune
as I tap out a beat.
Albums of amateur material
have wasted away through the years;
I hear myself stumble through
the vocabulary of vocalizing fears.
Feeling the click as the mechanical disk
chips away under the metal frame,
the simple song titles displayed
above my name.
I found the old device in the sock drawer
in my childhood home, where my ideas used to flower;
I’m surprised the thing even has power.
The port is old and packed with dust,
so even if I find a cord I dread
this little machine’s soon dead.
I turn it off, the last off-key note still ringing in my head.
I write darker songs and poems and stories these days,
doting on lived experience and producing them
with tools to polish and publish them for mass consumption.
But if I went back to banging on my desk
and slapping my knees and strumming the strings
of my old guitar so hard they snap
and shouting about how I don’t like broccoli
and don’t know if people like me,
Just maybe
I’d remember the basics
of how making things
used to move me.
(September 16, 2024)