The digital world
makes us lazy.

Music on your phone,
your tablet, your laptop:
instantly and casually
accessible at a whim.

But placing a record
on a turntable
is making love.

It is tactile
and personal.

Your hands must
be steady and
proceed mindfully.

It takes time
and intention.

You must handle it
gently, with care
and pay attention
to the process.

When you do,
you reach its sweet
analog ******.

Effort worthy
of Euterpe, Muse
of music.

She will keep you
coming back for more.

I do.

    ~mce

The Vault stands resolute
Against acidic Time.
It must have much to say.
There is much it must have seen.

It's steady, stony gaze
Is all that now remains
To stand guard over nothing;
Duty-bound to stay.

What resides within?
It is aching to become known.
What resides within?

We rush the beckoning gate,
We push and pry and pull.
Today is a first for the Vault:
For the first time it loses a fight.

The darkness confronts us,
Accusing and severe.
Apprehension crawls up our spines:
What has been hidden here?

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

We set foot inside,
Our steps unnervingly loud.
The cold sun nips our heels.
The darkness caresses our brow.

What's that ahead?
I believe it is light.
The faintest of glimmers:
Thin golden thread.

What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?

With the greatest of caution
We open this new door.
Beyond is a strange old creature,
Back to the wall, sitting on the floor.

His flesh is pale and creased,
But his eyes are anything but idle.
"What is this place?", we ask.
His answer comes with a smile:

"This is Man's Vault.
It is a reservoir of what we were
Long before the missiles or the disease
Or by both we all were burned".

"Who are you?"

"I am the Curator, the Chronicler.
This place is of my own work.
I've spent day and night here,
Building it with record, picture and book."

"What may we do with it?"

"That is for you alone to decide.
The collection must pass to new hands.
My purpose here has been served.
In this present realm I will not much longer bide."

On concluding his final, heavy quatrain,
He breathed his long life out.
And the liveliness from out his eyes did drain

For several minutes, we stood in silence.
As a weight pulled down on our hearts.
A race had died before our eyes,
And left to us its inheritance.

there were songs
that forgot the only songs
that would be remembered

there were sounds
that forgot the only sounds
that would be remembered

there were photographs
that forgot the only photographs
that would be remembered

and there were greetings
that forgot the only greetings
that would be remembered

out of fuel
out in space
the memory of
the human race

particles, surging in bubbles
in a great barrier
between the space we know
and what we know only to call space
The faint whispers of humanity
cannot be heard from here
not even the light
of the only star we know
the sun we love
can be seen

the voyager continues on its collision course
with mystery and unknown
and breaks through the barrier
because it cannot divert
and enters deep space

the crickets sometimes sound
like your broken record of a voice
on repeat.
scolding me for making something
out of nothing,
and still neglecting everything.

i no longer dream.

there are intervals of lost
consciousness and sometimes
i am running through the
forest trying to call for you.

it has been three years.
i stopped counting the days.
when you shook me till the poems
fell from my eyes.

i no longer cry.

It’s so easy
          to feel isolated
                    in this World.

When I get
          in that place
                    of loneliness

I listen to a record
           from my father’s old collection
                    from college.

                                                       ­                                               And I here them
                                                          ­                        I can feel them
                                                            ­                  gathered around

                                                         ­                                              With their beers
                                                           ­                             talking of hot girls
                                                           ­            with big, bouncy curls

                                                          ­                                        And for a moment
                                                          ­                           just a small moment
                                                          ­                I don’t feel so lonely.

I want to go to a record store with you
we can spend the little money we have left
on The Smiths, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd
for an hour or two we can be angsty teens in the 80s
who drink cheap beer and steal our parents cars
lets pretend were running away
from home, from school, from everything we know
I wanna lay on the floor of your apartment
put a record on the turntable and hear that sweet crackle
we'll listen to what we've bought
and pretend we're watching the stars through the ceiling
they'll dance to the beat like a laser show in our eyes
while mind blowing guitar riffs and drum beats fill our spirits

-kk

you never told me you needed me
just lists of other things deserving your attention.
your dreams were what was most important to you
and i can't say i blame you.

people are fault ridden creatures
after all.

i don't get lonely anymore.
the stench of coffee
and the staggered breath
of the same old records
keeps me.

my only frustration is that the music was too short
the dreams too painful
the quiet too loud.

the space between tracks is where i live
that repeating abyss you can't ignore
as you await the next song
hoping it will take you from this place.

it's odd how we never think anything of the silence
until it blankets us
and is the only thing left to talk about.