Sean Thomas Dougherty

DJ Poem


Spin what was never sound, until the walls of Jericho become absurd
frowns, prom gowns, clowns––

round nouns: mandalas, monsoons, Don Quixote's windmills swoon, ideograms of a voice consoling
what was shattered.  Spin
a worn copy of the poems of Tristan Tzara,
resuscitating the non-sequential,  rendezvous, with the stammer. Scraps from Basquiat's collage,

eclipse fashion.  Glue garbage.  Box ears of language, let
the blind witness with each flip of the fader, two turn tables  
re-mix the once abandoned, name it
a new song,

the same beats spliced, roll the dice.
The intricate life anyone might vanish:
A woman opens her eyes, takes a drag.  (Her sheets
music. Her sheets
an undiagnosed illness  

Mr. DJ spin us––into Friday night's syllabics, mathematics––
trigonometry  of the treble clef, what cannot be explained  
must raise our arms in praise––affliction banished
into bass,

the shapes of sounds no instrument has ever stretched––