When you have an itch

and scratch it

you feel better

with me it's certain voices

a bubble bursts in my skull

and says now you're mine to keep.

I swill it around, adopt the throat

ears, muscles fine tuned

and out it pops

a veritable cornucopia of character

if it works,

and practice fleshes out the disembodiment,

 

Pages remain in an album

old actors ripe with lines,

and in mediumistic stance

my body and mind begin to prance

back to the time

when the sounds were mind,

and I know their songs in advance.