Talk Radio

The road stretches out before him
and as he passes the trees and buildings
bright antenna glisten with energy
forging the half spoken voices from the sky
only to disappear as he passes beneath a bridge

The talk show hosts pick their music before they make their debut
they listen to the reception, which is always less than perfect
and decide what sounds best
a clip from a rock opera
the beginning of a film score
whatever makes them sound like they will take your call
a lost world of bass and fade

Now comes the inevitable telephone number
over the eerie rhythm of an electric motor
or the radio call of a power transformer
Phone lines are open now
They don't tell you they will screen two hundred calls
and take only one
thats the hidden price you pay
for their elegant tirade
(does it have to be this way?)

The screen glows
to speed up, to slow down - control
from those who answer the phones,
make their opponent sound dumb
while captains of industry and politics
line up for cut rate air

And the voices unfold
before the open road
A talk clown
grows red
dry spit flying against the screen of the microphone
a hand slams down on a desk
A man paid to talk
in a room of acoustic tile
an industry built around
bottled rage straight from the road
into sparkling political bile
the screen prompts the entertainer
to step it up, rush hour's over

The wheel feels solid now in his hands
his senses search
the space between the words
listening for the angel's voice
or maybe an alien?
you never know

That is the sound of of an automatic door
and there - perhaps his neighbor?
sounded like sparks
the music was human
the static was.. natural

He thinks of her
behind the green door
smooth dark skin
soft white noise
the implicit order of the overload

(we travel on the silent road)
we travel on the silent road