tape recorder 

the device was a snake machine
where the church women
gave my father his bread.
what we do to be remembered;
i will not be part of that. 
going out to dinner
to celebrate another year
with voices. i told the tape recorder
i was planning to overwrite
my life anyway & start
a new saved file anyway. on my back
i took voice notes about 
the texture of broken glass.
a handful of ice cubes
i carried to a chalice 
in the middle of a tongue.
the tape recorder arrives 
beneath almost every desk i sit at.
remove it & place it inside 
a conch shell. try hearing me now.
it could be a prank by angels
or, worse, a prank by god.
he has a bin of tapes he keeps
in a basket by his couch.
what must it be like to create something
& hear it talk. this is how i feel
about my poems sometimes.
look how it talks! another tape recorder
crawls with eight legs.
is technically a spider 
but is definitely listening.
if i sound paranoid i promise
i'm not. i'm just being aware
of my surroundings. at any time
there are at least three recordings
taking place. i don't need to be
a catelog but i do need
to be a parascope. the mountains
are full of tapes. all of them
unfilled yet. the taperecorder 
has an idea of what it's looking for.
i put my teeth inside a jar
& shake it. nothing at all
to listen to here. at least not
until my father comes back
for worshipping god.
he'll come around. he always does.

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