by David Bowles

That’s my problem, I told the editor—my voice
wants to wander the spectrum, whispering
nervous anecdotes and febrile dreams before
launching into a sermon full of beatitudes and
metonymic brimstone. It wants to croon romance
and bellow rolling, dactylic waves of war. Raspy
and twangy and aspirating aitches with Latino
limberness, it glissades over technobabble and
extraterrestrial names, hewing close to the real
then mixing in harmonics of magic, rumbling
ultra low frequencies that raise goose bumps,
making bones rattle and stomachs flop in horror.

He ranted in his monotone, wise to the industry,
cautioned me to not confuse the reader, to be
predictable, to find my range and work it well,
but I was already trying out a gleeful falsetto
that best fit the contours of the next words.

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