bangs—circuit board and resistors their tiny forge.  Steel  doesn’t

want  to be  they say, one aspiration per pling of hammer

on punching tool. It’s three thousand degrees, the Joshua trees

resist the urge to sway. I’m in a fist fight with it, they say. Their grin,

insulated through transformers and coils, copper, comes out

the speaker holes a C Major 7, ripe with coyote and creosote.

To draw, they define, as they smash a spoon handle long and lean.

To upset, they moan, of the thickening indigo over the Mohave,

the escalation of pitch the antenna has to transmit.  Iron  doesn’t

want  to move   a few million hertz into the angle grinder.

A buzz when yards of sine wave smack over the sparking cymbals.

The scent of juniper washes down from the Little San Bernardinos.

The artist takes up their tongs. Everything volatile in coal burns off.

Skull Rock melts. Penguin Rock riffs with the bassist, tumbling

in parts, one thum-thum per measure. Coke is the mic, and the mic is red

hot. Someone plugs in a violin, shudders, and capacitors do their damnedest

against the anvil.   The squelch shuts out every other sound.