A sweating flowerbed where my fantasies are thinning.
I’m a light sleeper, too many asters, taxonomies of sound.
I’d come in blue wide leg Jncos like I was meant to be.
Curious, maladaptive, suffused with unrationalized hope.
I’d listen and be with my people. No one is concerned with
honoring success because the concept of success is gone.
In the 90’s I knew a scene kid who dreamed about it on
the regular. He had a reputation for coming to rave parties
barefoot so she could be close to the rotating basslines
her body swan diving into the mothership of a 4/4 beat.
Morning in the trip-hop lounge he told me how it was
gonna go down in the end. We’d stumble blinking into
day and the music would keep going without turntables,
drum machines, mixers. Overnight we would take power
as a stabilizing force of abundant sustainable possibility.
Heartbeat of the earth, muzzled by business as usual,
restored to their original health. It wouldn’t be like that
weird Dr. Bronner cult gazing at you taking a shower
where we’d be all-one, it’s cruel monotheistic trash,
beats got their own raw logic, nothing is standard,
but we would all be able to hear it. The start of an
old connection. An ability to bear music upholding
life on this planet. Dead from the last heart attack
of this world, I’m a black girl dozing with first shift
commuters on the route 15 bus and on weekends
a fire opal hard at worship in the temple of house.
It’s like when an opera singer bangs a high note
and a champagne flute breaks, they explained,
except it would be us crashing and breaking
beating in real time. The elders have a saying
the beat goes on: my fracturing livelihoods
resurrected by the rhythms of the night.