tide is high

diggin that
rocksteady
from jamaica
pure
and most
music is a faker
that's foolin your
cure

thinkin bout the sounds
of John Holt
the paragon voice
sweet like a sugar
thunderbolt
we carry on
lost in mixed elements
but the chunky guitar got my
fix like burroughs and
Griffiths singing bout the
sorrows in the ghetto straits while
the world shudders missing
Lynn Taitt
the heavyweight sound
with a feather stroke
it was never lackluster
when Kwesi spoke

bumpin Prince Buster
and misstepper modern pop hits don't pass muster
trust the
musty vinyl
sweatin island into trojan
miles of the unheard
exploding

i dust off a 45
hits me in the forehead
even mp3s leavin more dead
than Judge Dread on the radio charts
Alton Ellis arts speakin peace
from stages above cultural
rage til old age
dusty pages from LPs
tell a story of lost
misprints and out-of-print
allegories

but the curl of an upward strum
will save you
keep your dancin shoes drummin and
hum bravely
head nodding
babylon is here
it's broad and bright-eyed
we rearrange and strive
and somehow
we
never
arrive