Chewed Up

David Bowie is black
at my Panasonic's
bidding: Ground Control drops
an octave, the deck-jaws chomp.
I dive for the stop/eject,
knowing too well it's already wrecked.
I yank free my taped-from-vinyl copy
of Hunky Dory,
it loses blood
fast, spooling
ribbons onto the carpet.
Surgery follows with scissors and scotch tape.

Even now, when the Major comes
on the radio, I anticipate
the amputated
lyric but still forget his name.