Gold Record

Dark was the night the Voyager slippedinto space carrying the music of one whalegreeting another, as well as the thudof the stubborn heart and three,maybe four, people laughing, the sumof whose voices isn't that much differentfrom the few seconds of herded sheep,at least to my poor, imperfect earwhich still has trouble distinguishinga caterwaul from a stabbing victim,two sounds our wise Sagandid not include on his gilded handshaketo the stars, which is regrettablebecause what better way to captureour tempers and apathy than recordsome pitiful soul, hand at his puncturedside, trying to groan louder than the TVsthe neighborhood keeps turning upbecause they think he's a pair of catsfucking under the luminous stars,the very stars the Voyager will photographon the sly until it stumbles upon a shippiloted by a race of beings so starvedfor connection they cancel their plansfor the evening and sit on shag rugs—their favorite souvenir from the seventies—and cue our golden recordon the turntable they inheritedfrom their in-laws and never expected to usefor anything other than drinks and magazinesto entertain the occasional visitor, much less to hearBlind Willie Johnson, that priest of the nightSagan placed alongside Stravinskyand company because in the three minutesand twenty-one seconds Johnson sung for Columbiain 1927 he moaned to the heavens about homelessness or immortality or someother mumbo jumbo any race smart enough to escapegravity and cross the peacock-blackof galaxies would never believe because theywould know the blues are always about lovegone cold, and its light, the clammy light we might spendyears saying we can't live without and then do.