By J.J. Tindall
Metal Machine Music
Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re trying to be so quiet? – Bob Dylan, “Visions of Johanna”
The heat pipes do more than just cough:
they hiss and spew, slur and sing.
Sometimes comes garbled dialogue
in a voice like Captain Beefheart
or his hero Howlin’ Wolf;
that could be a projection of mind
or perhaps the pipes are actually
channeling radio waves.
A generalized hiss that ebbs, then flows,
noise that soothes rather than sullies.
Highly percussive: clanks, pops, whistles, pings.
At each resurgence, a few more handfuls of rain
transmogrify into both comfort
and joy.
Sometimes it’s like air brakes
on a freight train, sometimes like
the old dial-up modem
connection signal,
Old-fashioned radiator heat
throughout a multi-unit building:
automatic, even excessive,
Nothing to turn on and
nothing, really nothing to turn off.
As such, a luxury,
like sleep itself anymore in life
during wartime.
Not until late middle-age
did I not shiver indoors, dressed in layers,
through fifty Chicago winters.
This stolid, clockwork choir
celebrates my coming through!
Instead of irritation
whenever this ambient oratorio
commences I feel
elation.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on December 31, 2017