Saturday, August 16, 2014

ROBIN WILLIAMS

Robin Williams was a room full of radios blaring at full volume, each tuned midway between stations, the air crackling with static gristle, country music, traffic reports, names against Dad, religious shills rattling their tin cans, frayed choruses intoning the Big 90 from Sandusky, bad weather, more static, crazy laughter from the side of the road where old factories hide behind the tree line, the end of the dial veered into infinity and deep into the wilds of wicked, vengeful chatter, every voice cursed with an accent stumbling and bruising its verbal knees on the nonsense sounds that make English the playground of sex without joy, Robin Williams was the Kirby Crackle of each machine in the house coming on with a lurching jerk after the power has been off for a week and the city experiences that hardship of vines creeping under the door jambs and attaching itself to windshields and store front windows, his was a telephone ringing two floors up, three doors over, all night, under the bed, scaring the dog and making the cat's hair stand up like hair cuts that remind that liberty is a code word for fuck off and die, the left end of the dial grows louder in the static, all the music, news, weather, sports, Baptist preaching and miracle cures for a preferred assortment of cooties are sucked in, the room we speak up with the radios and such now pulses and puckers, it is the rant of something being slurped, liquid and quick, the room is empty and is dry as old bone marrow, quiet as cars without gasoline, there is only sun from the window, a breeze, night time coming.