Static City

Some of us sitting around listening to static

and one says, That’s nothing compared to the sixties’ static.

What are you talking about? says another.

If you want real static you got to go way back,

to Memphis, like when Memphis was still

Egyptian, people still with both eyes

on one side of their nose like flounders

wandering around like wind-up toys

before anyone even knew what static was,

before even the wah-wah pedal as we know it,

bread like 2 cents a loaf, before shag carpet

and modern recording techniques

where you don’t like something just flick a number.

What we had back then was crawdad boil.

And rope.

And a couple guys at the crossroads

who sold their souls to a snake,

a fucking snake, man,

because they didn’t have nothing else

a snake could use and even if they did.

Absolutely no electric tuning forks,

no designer cowboy shirts,

no atom bombs small enough

to fit in a fucking suitcase, man,

but they had an inkling,

a cerebral spark from knocking their heads

against a wall so long they were getting the idea

that the wall was just an idea, a concept

you could just pass right through

but then there’d be another wall

like when you get through childhood

and there’s puberty,

it’s walls all the way, man,

but they had this authentic buzz,

a hive in the hedgerows

and when a talking snake offers,

you deal, man, you don’t

zigzag prevaricate

because that’s the snake’s metier,

you just deal even if no one’ll ever know your name

except a few devotees,

oddball ex-cons, misfits with no gas money,

maybe only a couple on the planet at any one time

knowing the true static

behind this stepped-on, pooched-out

beep beep thunk thunk fluff

everyone’s plugged into now,

propagating like cellophane,

like it’s raining diamonds on the wedding parade,

like it’s god’s first thought

and they were around to hear it

and it didn’t grate their brains like cheese

which it would, man,

you’d hit the dirt,

everything ripping up your heart

like a horse that wants to head home

only home’s on fire and your mind’s the fire

so all you can do is rub dirt into the fire

which is your mind like I said.

And you’re telling me you ask

someone like that for identification?

No, man, you just know

or you don’t and if you don’t

you won’t ever. Imagine a frog

in your mouth, struggling.

Now imagine you’re that frog.