Subwoofer

March 14, 2003 by Doug Groothuis

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Thumping, bumping from nowhere—louder, deeper, unmistakable,
                              unavoidable.

Now from everywhere—pounding, roaring, bursting into my
     unprotected being, uninvited, unstoppable.

A rolling, prowling object
     radiating meanness, rudeness, crudeness, lewdness.

Sonic stench of thick machine noise
Putrid pulsations penetrating the unwary sensorium.

Subwoofer
Sonic-ravager
Noise-blaster
Rudeness-amplifier
Rudeness-accelerator
Boom-bomber
Bombast-er

Nowhere to hide
No shield to wield
No escape from the quake.

Vibrations vitiating body and soul
No cover for the ears
It roars in through the pores,
     the spores of sonic death,
                    disintegration, degeneration.

At last, the beastly roar retreats
     from the scene of the cultural crime.

The wounded remain
     dazed, angry, helpless

On it thunders, to terrorize, victimize all in its audio wake
     More sensoria to scuttle
     down the wretched road

Shalom undone,
     plundering peace, ravaging reason,
     ear by ear, soul by soul.

Subwoofer
Sub-humanizer
De-humanizer
Anti-humanizer
Uncivil, uncivilizing
     profitable, popular, poisonous

                              Subwoofer

Nowhere to be seen or heard or feared or hated
     in
the Kingdom that is to come!

Ode to the Book

March 13, 2003 by Doug Groothuis

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I wonder . . .
will you turn to relic,
go the way of memorized epic, gospel, psalm?
Will there be monuments to your memory?

You have no switches.
You can’t be turned off and on.
You don’t brighten a screen.
Your mark is by in, not by bulb.
You can’t be deleted with a key stroke.

You are what you are at all times,
     free from plugs, programs and upgrades.
You are not called up, warmed up or saved on a disk.
You are self-contained, untransmutable, defiantly yourself.

You are what you are,
     waiting to give through your stubborn form.

You are text, print, page,
     with
          spine, binding, cover.

You may be grasped and smelled and made my own
     —a well-worn page delights,
     annotations spark memory—
     though your truths are owned by none save
               Truth itself.

You wait for fingers and eyes to unlock your secrets in
     measured breaths of comprehension, rumination.

You weigh down my shelves, thousands of you—
     waiting, watching, calling.

Some of you are familiar friends,
          others mere acquaintances,
          some strangers,
          some disputants,
               itching for a philosophical fight.

Your meaning is in the musing.

I turn your pages.

Text, print, page
     with
          spine, binding, cover.

I return to your pages.

Each of you bears a solid memory,
               of our meeting,
               of how you served me,
               and how you served another,
               of thoughts loaned me
               to loan again.

You bring me to myself
     You bring me to Another.

I will pass you on to other hands,
               other minds,
               other uses.

So you can give what you are:

Text, print, page
     with
          spine, binding, cover.

Your meaning is in the musing.

Turn the pages.

Return to the pages.