Let's pretend Y2K really happened and the power went out for years. We had nothing left but tables that wouldn't turn, styli that wouldn't read, echo that wouldn't slap back, and Moogs that wouldn't MIDI, no matter how hard you plugged them in. We took to the mountain's foot. What then when
all the generators have burned the last of the Albertan gas? A bar of survivalist gold in one hand, a can of beets in the other, you wonder in the wilderness. Drop 'em,
get your hand-start world band and crank it like an old Tin Lizzie till the light goes white from the energy of you. Roll the tuner till you hit real digits from somebody else's here where year one was the Hijra, or the power is solar: metallophones on Radio Malaysia; fingertips on a reed with a pith of blue breath; that bassoon climbing up and down Smokey's irony in "Tears of a Clown"; or some tongue speaking a round language that you don't know (full of O's) angling over to you (squaring the circle) being a poem.
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Copyright © 2007 Charles H. Rowell