Sonic (September)

Our washing machine changes cycles. The heater makes low tones. Quietly I put on a weathered Sonic Youth record. Random keys tune-up like morning birds when I look down on freeways behind closed eyelids. It’s September. A van flies around the one-way, freight clutches. I look into multi-roads and hear vehicles. They are very slick. As the shadow of one car glides across yellow lines, another shoots forward in a slight angle, as with hundred others lost to sight soon beyond bridges and lane turnouts. Speed’s unresisting as alternative tunings hum, forever shifting, until the record ends amid ethereal feedback.