needle idling
leading in
taking flight
across the groove
crackling into life
unchanged since 1889
black disc spinning
revealing secrets
from the darkness of vinyl
rumble of base
crash of high hat
lyrical weavings
entwined around
a density of sound
unmatched by digital cleanliness
the smell of aging cardboard
with artwork
fit for a gallery

My turntable doesn't have an auto stop
Or an arm that returns when the disc is up
So I have to be alert, conscious, and in tune
Less that scratchy white noise fills up the room

If I'm busy with chores, or out in the yard
A trench slowly forms,
Vinyl's soft, diamond's hard
But when I pay attention, I inherently know
Two songs left to go, one more...
Get up, flip and flow

My player might not be smart,
doesn't know when to stop
But it's got me programmed,
whether I like it or not.

Aerosmith on vinyl
Your hand on my throat
Listen to Toys In The Attic
I'll be your toy, Make me choke
Kiss me ever so softly
While your lips tell me jokes
Send chills down my spine
When I smell your cologne

Show me your favorite songs
Tell me your crazy stories
I want to know who you are
I just want you to adore me
Look through my eyes to my soul
Hands all over my body
Steal the air from my lungs
I swear you're killing me softly

The record player plays
the Vinyl of November,
the forthcoming of winter
and the apparent
festival of lights
amidst all the glow
a light shinier than the rest
radiated by this woman
draped in customary pink,
smiled like the light of a candle
lighting up the room.
A different match however
lighting up this candle,
unsettling it was to see and it still is,
but the beauty always lied
in one's being amidst the light
of this ever lit up candle.
The vinyl stops abruptly
bringing me back
to the cold dark room
as cold and as dark
as the reality has been,
neither a candle nor
a match to be seen.

Removed from paper inner sleeve
shiny black disc
catching light, rainbows across the groove
carefully placed on turntable's
spinning platter
to keep finger marks at bay
spinning, 33 1/3
snap, crackle, pop
the needle takes flight
leading in to
the rumble of bass
crash of high hat
singer's lyrical weavings
a density of sound
the smell of vinyl
a whiff of aging cardboard sleeve
artwork fit for a gallery

In the center gravity holds
tightly as we spiral
awaiting to enfold
ever pressed in cosmic vinyl

Spin me some velvet,
Scuff me over with gravel,
Pick me some bluesy strings;
Tie me a bunch of wildflower quavers,
Let’s hear how your phoney sax sings.

Dip me in treacle,
Needle me with soul,
Groove me some dirt and some bass;
******* your ***** devil’s pipe strong,
Let’s play us some bourbon and lace.

Spin me some velvet,
Scuff me over with gravel,
Lay me down in meadowsong;
Rent me a dime’s worth of old dust and daydreams,
Honey chil’, you cain’t do me no wrong.