“This Machine Kills Fascists”
Woody
Guthrie’s guitar, 1941
“Thine evermore, most dear lady, / whilst
this machine is to him, / Hamlet”
Hamlet to Ophelia, a letter, Act 2,
Scene 2
the machine hum
of thick tread on hot new blacktop
settles in
with the monotony of a lazy guitar
or banjo,
mandolin, harmonica, slap of the leg
though this
body, sometimes estranged,
with certain
sounds sends unknown shivers ,
this machine
knows no exile, is no refugee
the new
grooves, tires & road, make a music
that sounds
so much like flight that I can almost
feel an
updraft lift over the machine’s backbeat thump
who says
they are not an autocrat of their own body
tells a lie
that only the body refuses to believe
maybe this is
the truth behind the ghost in the machine
the song an upslope
wind makes shakes this machine
like the growl of Howlin Wolf, or bang of a Bo Diddley
beat
there is no
storm or stress too much to keep me from home
there is
nothing independent of the dictator, mind or body,
no music
that shuts down the impulse to swerve
for the curb
speed
through turns & push the machine to the limits of will
arriving home through sun or squall, north by
northeast,
there is
nothing more musical than your voice in our home
put the
machine to rest, put the worries away & let storm
I've reread this a few times and don't feel it is disjointed, though I can sense the rush in it--that's what I like about it. So much of your work has this beautiful control, but this feels slippery, like a blues song, moving in and out of the rhythm but still, somehow, hanging on to it.
ReplyDeleteI just reading the first lines of each stanza and ended with the last line--with a period here and there, that could make for another interesting and compelling draft, if you're considering revising it at all. But, again, I like it just how it is.