cool banana radio

a windswept hairline crept out of the shored up morn
collecting the wiry thoughts of night to fresh spindles
as the rest of the body caught up in a rush of coffee...
or was it tea? ah, it's a dry cotton mouth either way,
good practice cranking the motormouth stammering
out wrinkled logorrhea readied for the hot ironic.

and the man said he'd be damned if he won't...and he was,
or wasn't, just spouting from the mouth to be held at bay
'til words like waves found sound and played the proper yellow -
the shade of his heart, drowning out & droned: a cool banana radio.

he brushed the static from his teeth, flossed the whispers
from the ears and threw them out the window into the world
where they could do the least subconscious phenomena
of absorbing into the porous organs of popular ideas.
still pyjama clad he trudged into his work-at-home studio
like velcro clinging to the burs of pearly disturbance.
there was always this one caller, the tone with sunburnt coconuts
down at their daiquiri resort (it was flushed in the curl in the voice),
who struggled to spit words past her tongue
as she requested songs for the dead men in her life.

"he blew blue moon dreams." she stuttered - skipping in rotation...
and wound that rope, infrequently frequency-filled, led by the press
& pulse of paperthin ivory; stretching over miles of crooked hollow.
she made with the hope and he made like the wind, and the lord
made a mistake like he'd never make again: you can't
shove a spark through a shape already ignited. and, indeed,
it seems she sees some holes are better left divided.

"kill your darlings, dear, they are surely unrequited
and would take your reins, brand your glorious steed
and anything else in the stable for a courteous remedy is beyond
your grasp of measure and persevering will. you just save that talk
for talkback where we can radiograph the beat in our valves."
he spoke with unhesitant shlock, a real prisoner of bravado's
contortion like he too was morphin' endorphins by the clock.
"what's your call today, another run from a saxophone man?
give me a song to play to balm your rawness."

a line of birds, up above, cawed a curious chorus, announcing unnoticed
a dawn, worn and unfocused, spilling gold for the great whomever.
the day broke, scattering light, began begging for change and was
obliged by her features. for when four eyes meet they are impolite
creatures, and she found each passing stranger passing strange.
"my skin's a bed in which I lie, by me unmade." she spoke softly,
and having so stated, she returned to the dark from whence she came.

he should have known better about her descent, a twisted knob
tapping the microphone like a government send-off...
he came to the dock of their old engagements
and dropped off his bottled message.
"this one's for all you vagrant spaceheads
chasing threads of long dead broadcasts on the rim."