Monday, July 11, 2011


Spinning in a circle
Phonograph record turntable
Or the revolving chamber of a gun

Though one implies violence
And the other not
A bullet might be a swifter
And more humane end
To the fragile identity
Of my old sweet friend
Than a tune repeated
Till the grooves in the vinyl
Wear down
And the needle skips crazy arcs
Into gibberish

She phones me at midnight
“Love, love, love…”

I tell her, “Wake up to reality!”

But she won’t listen to me

She begs to hear
What I cannot tell her

But still I feel
Her sorrow
And loneliness
Somewhere far away
Bleeding into a telephone.

About Steven Gulvezan:
Steven Gulvezan tries to work a story or poem the way a good butcher works a nice piece of meat – cut out most of the fat and gristle, leave something juicy on the bone.  Links to some of his writings may be found at:

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