APRIL 1997
contents
Resurrection
By Nik Chatfield
I heard his voice on the radio the other day
the tiny blown speaker flip number radio
in the yellow walled room where I work
I heard his voice
Steven Jesse Bernstein
grinding out syllables in a gravel-voiced monotone
words steadily crawling from his throat
sharp-edged meanings in a relentless flood
laid over a pale grey industrial soundscape
creating a vision of a lunatic god
making new worlds from the edge
of a hollow eternity
I heard his voice on the radio the other day
a slow flush crept over my body
I found myself spinning
bouncing off the walls, saying
wishing I had half the talent he did
he had more courage than me as well
I was always too afraid of addiction
to mess with heroin
Not him
The man whose voice pulled me out of
a forgotten workday dream
reached for that needle damning the cost
When I tried to make myself die
I sought easy solace in the exhaust
a carbon monoxide fade
only to emerge choking, gasping
saying still to this day
now what do I do?
The man whose voice made me spin and swear in jealous ecstasy
jammed a knife into his throat
No easy fade for him
Sticking himself with implements of slow or rapid death
he still lived a full-blooded, bone strong tornado loving life
I remember sitting agog in stiff-necked splendor
third row front and center at the Moore
while refrains new and familiar oozed out
of a face slightly twisted in genetic ignorance
thick black horn rims peering intently at the table
where the work of a genius sat waiting to
erupt into my brain
I heard his voice on the radio the other day
I sat down
in the empty space
when it was gone
and wept
© The Raven Chronicles 1997