Jules Gibbs

Air Chaos

In the violent midday talk of a headless, wingless Limbaugh,
there’s no one and nothing to kill. No more song. Time
is buried under fickle sponsors and third party fallout,
a volcano’s glassine dust. Rush hates spring for the allergies
and the Armageddon —or is it the Genesis — he can never
tell which. Because the Other has made off with all the booty
our radio lord must broadcast from the birth canal
of the volcano, alone with his untrained mind. The yogis
cannot unthink him. Flecks infused with fluoride
settle to earth and the cattle’s teeth fall out, their bones
rot inside their skins. The kids spray-paint koans
high on the water towers in a desperate deep red
once reserved for love: CEASE BREEDING
is the new Tao of Goth. Under the sucrose sun, trillium
unfold without radio or hum, colonies collapse
in disbelief, a disorder of the come-hither call, the blossom
arrested in the anti-song of benzene.
A sapsucker taps out a hollow code
that unfurls the first Hosanna fern, bridegroom
of the forest floor where the rocks blush with moss,
and the earth, without commentary, broadcasts its softness,
thinks its way back through the dangerous silica
without thought. The planes still grounded
in volcanic ash as Rush kills another day
of song, suckles his pundits for a better,
more bitter sound, sends chaos into the dead
air where we lose the signal.


Jules Gibbs