Don Bogen


They leap from the wired decisions
Track after track he lays them down
In a blank room, padded, the sound steeped inside
Alone with his toys:  drumset, guitars, mikes, amps
Harmony his own voice in spectrum
Midday, morning, night—he can't distinguish
He goes on stacking the layers that will define him
Exquisite unity, fixed, unperformable
Toiling like a god outside the world

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review