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.