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POETRY BY DAVID WEINSTOCK


SOUND MEN

In between words, there are silences.
My sound man finds them all.
He marks them with a pencil
and snicks them out with his blade.

Brown silence in various sizes
ticks into the wastebasket:
a quick breath as long as your finger.
a pregnant pause you could wrap around your waist.

Hour after hour I watch him,
my sound engineer and his razor blade,
paring my interviews into clear speech.

How patiently he corrects every speaker's diction,
how gently he teaches the tongue-tied
to speak clearly as Demosthenes.

Yet I've never known a sound man
who didn't cherish a shoe box full
of some great man's stutters and slips

and a secret plan to splice them back together
into one long nightmarish stammer,
into something truly unspeakable.

 



David Weinstock is a former staff writer for the L.L. Bean catalog.
Helives a life filled with wonder in Middlebury,
Vermont, where he is a member of the Spring Street Poets.


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The Blue Moon Review/Blue Penny Quarterly, ISSN 1079-042x
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