30 Poems in 30 Days: Hip-hop for Angels (11/30)

11 June 2007

Hip-hop for Angels
by Daniel R Stout

There’s something wrong
with the socket on my wrist.
When I plug in for the night,
I hear music.
I think it’s the wiring
in my arm that’s picking it up.
But it’s not
the usual technoclash
that radio stations play
around here.
It’s like Cocteau Twins
mixed with Portishead
mixed with Enya.
I call it ‘hip-hop for angels.’
I’ve never heard anything
like it, and it’s just this
weird feedback I hear
when I’m recharging my
cardiac batteries.
In an age that is so programmed —
my heart rate
is controlled by microprocessors —
it’s weird to be getting phantoms.
Does anyone else hear this?
I don’t dare search the web
because the googlement will know.
I’ve heard they harvest
batteries from the still-living
bodies of unlicensed searchers
and sell the flesh for cattle feed.
This music haunts me
during the night.
I haven’t slept in weeks
and I’m afraid someone
will hear the music
and turn me in.
Maybe it’s just in my head,
but it’s hard to tell.
The glycosides seem to help
with the augmentation surgery
I had done on my internal organs,
but I’m wondering
if they’re making
me crazy.
Is it just a symptom
of a larger neuroses?
This morning
when I got up
I went to the piano
and played a riff
I heard last night
and it seemed so
right, like this
was the right time
for burrowing into
the ground
and making
music
that no one else
can hear.