Reception of this station is poor enough
that electric bass lines pulsate with a fizzle,
like a fart machine with batteries run low.
Someone in a nearby eighth floor window
is counting off slow-motion jumping jacks
bathed in his televisions jumpy light.
His eighth-floor neighbors line of Christmas lights
strung taut within the balconys recess
looks like a circus high wire, electrified.
Theres also an eighth floor Christmas tree lit up,
not quite triangular in two dimensions;
recalls a blaster wound on a Star Wars droid.
The poor reception cant, however, touch
a stand-up bass line: in which case the static
permeates more generally, white noise
as darkly gray as this warm winters dead-
of-night sky; unobtrusive interference
through which the bass line punches, like the needle
of an old, immaculately tuned
and moonless Singer sewing machine that threads
its patterns onto tissue wisps of vellum.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 44 | Fall 2014