THE GENESIS TRANSMISSION
Then we’re on a beach in the predawn dim listening to low horns sound from the deep.
A froggy didge
The dirge of wind
We huddle close and wait for light to shatter across the plane.
Wind picks up
Limp synth begins
The synth is a sun that grows in my sternum.
When the sun strains finally up it will be an oiled bicep
A hesitant match
If bicep: subtle body:
the face of god we never see
but feel like a radiant sun crowning in our sternum.
If match tip: let it sear this embrace to permanent shadow.
Let nuclear winds spiral around us,
love of mine— Let the sand go
Don’t let the devil enter on his steed of metallic laughter.
His electric guitar splinters the tender song!
Birds flee the beach— Fear takes the flock—
When the devil comes he comes as a human voice wrapped in radio static.
His white noise infiltrates the dream. His many human voices speak in nonce
So it’s kind of like a neuro-train / But you pay / You’re connected / and that’s the stuff that we like
Now a sound, as if inside the body. The liquid sound of a steel blade working between two ribs. The dismal rip of fascia,
On and on His idle hand diddles steel strings
while coins clink in an aluminum bucket as if to keep the tortured time.
O, my Ashen, my Petrified
Now this sudden silence.
Don’t let me go down low to scratch around in leaves. Give me back the sea.
Lisa Wells, Genesis Transmission
American, b. 1982, playing from Iowa City, IA, USA
Lisa Wells is a poet and essayist. She is the author of the chapbook BEAST (Bedouin Books, 2012) and Yeah. No. Totally. (PDP, 2011), a book of essays. More here:
Thoughts on the Telephone process
It’s difficult to enact the experience of the initiating work as opposed to telegraphing the idea of the experience.