Decades ago, that data transferred
onto the tiny drive, the voice straining
from the still-forming throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The mouth moving in unfamiliar ways,
the soundwaves recreating
the crackle of the cheap microphone
and the warbling, wobbling vocal tones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Albums of amateur material
have wasted away through the years;
I hear myself stumble through
the vocabulary of vocalizing fears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Feeling the click as the mechanical disk
chips away under the metal frame,
the simple song titles displayed
above my name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just maybe
I’d remember the basics
of how making things
used to move me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n