(Poet’s note: I was touching the pad of my iTouch the other day and suddenly had this wave of memories of buying vinyl as a kid. Thus, this poem)
Remember when:
you’d sit around on the floor
with the album cover open on your outstretched legs,
reading everything from liner notes to lyrics
and experiencing the music, visually;
or when the songs on the eight track player would spill over
into the next one like some unexpected
mash-up with overlapping beats and voices
creeping around like dust in the attic;
or how you had to carve up your mother’s scotch tape
in order to sticky-fix the cassette that came un-spooled in your lap
while the cat played with it from down below?
Now, you tap your fingers on the screen
in order to access the music from some far-away database
in such a way that no effort is required
other than the listening,
and the cat is nowhere to be found but in the past.
Peace (in the past),
Kevin