The Loudspeaker of the People’s Army
In the Ogaden desert, they skim it from muddy water,
pour it over cactus meat: ululations crisp as morning birds.
With fossils they tune innards. With tails write.
Pause for good light. Let it pass through remains,
the Loudspeaker warbling in low tones.
In Oaxaca, they carve it of radishes. Contorted
shapes shaved into violins, slung into trees
cutting a thick, rained foliage sonata
for African bees. Some measures drizzling
the branches others hidden in the roots,
the pulse endlessly trilling
in the City of Angels, where it
resurfaces by the docks:
fifty varieties of night shade and sweet pearl,
fifty sacks of thistle grown entirely by pitch.
As the what if of the inflamed song
split the surface like a whale’s tail,
Argentines collected sun-bleached
cardboard in the storm of bells, knowing
hours by the heat of another’s body.
When we fix the trains will we hear it en masse,
the solipsistic question: why do they hate us? flaking
to an inarticulate texture,
dusty rafters quaking, until undone, hornlike
piece by piece we enter the Loudspeaker
addressed as stranger?
You are the last stranger,
little organ, little ear
all your lorries loaded with air.
When you feel me kiss you
during the overture of wild goats,
I’m caressing a rhythm.