SONG OF THE DAY: Superjock (kudzu'd)

Eh fuck it, this sonnet is about old records, but also human existence.

Each imperfect moment is needed part of whole, 
holistic wabi-sabi like crackles and skips 
in ancient 45, accentuating soul 
sounds with warmth of natural wear and tear, round trips 

on turning tables at times unstable, slight buzz 
of poor grounding creating ever-present hum. 
I prefer the realness of blemishes because 
perfection is fool's errand, letting self become 

sum of path traveled, again like old records, which 
passed hands over decades, picking up local dust 
and accidental scratches or physical glitch 
which can't be fixed, yet learned to live with. I have trust 

in Universe to keep fool self full of fresh funk, 
many folks' most perfect beats are fashioned from junk.