Sound check one twos echo
in the black ark lab where
rusty bicycle spokes
droop on a wooden rail and
crossword puzzles, empty squares, sit
beside a sound-board and mixer

where the wire is live and warm now for
gruffy voice testing mics:
“check one two, one two
rhythm selector sound drop”

Oh Majestic riddim,
conquering lion:
it is fire for us.

A prickle of symphonic silences,
spinal tattoos,
rhythmic needles upon vinyl
in solstice,
a blast of bass and
drumming and Lee Scratch
sampling howling baboons from rock mount.

The engineer must press record now;
pause, record, then stop.

Spin it and scratch it first
unto a silent night of humming
and river echoing
the static strums of stalactite guitars
and cicada tenors

recorded in cave,
dubbed in the wind.

Record this, lee scratch,
your crescent night dubbed
to the static of Selassie’s eyes.

Press play.