Monday, May 21, 2012

Raundi Moore-Kondo


Aretha’s Gold was the only thing that came from the cassette
player on the nightstand next to the bed. I’d listened, half asleep,
to Side B more than a dozen times a day for three hot, and sweaty
sad months. It was only a coincidence that “Respect” is on Side A.

Some moods are too low for changing sides or fast forwarding
tapes. There isn’t a song on that album that didn’t rub my broken
bosom into a chocolatewhisky stained face. No motivation was found
for picking through un-alphabetized shoebox collections. Besides,

I couldn't abandon Aretha when she needed me most. The newspapers
had piled up in a "do not disturb" trench. I was fine eating cereal,
and without any milk, as long as there was still some wine to wash
it all down. I developed a new form of astrology based on constellations

that had formed in the popcorn of my acoustic ceiling. My Jupiter
is conjunct his mid-heaven. His moon is in direct opposition
to the cobwebs of my broken rotary fan. No wonder. We'd been doomed
since birth. I had long talks with her--told her to forget him. That no man

was worth that kind of pain. She was the Queen of Soul, for God’s sake.
But nothing I said changed anything. The tape took me through the first
of October.  Just as the dew point achieved a record low and the smog
levels reached a record high, the cellophane got tangled up in the spindles.

Chain of Fools snapped right in half.