You are there.
For Janice Windborne, 1950-2019
1
The great radio goddess lives on.
I know that this is true,
even if others no longer remember her.
I know that she flies
with her gorgeous cat black wings
over cities that wait for justice:
over Flint, New Orleans, and Ramallah
astride Tegucigalpa and Charlottesville;
above Staten Island and Damascus.
I know that she dwells
in all of these places.
And I know that you are with her.
You are there
riding her long, modulated torso
alongside Ishtar,
as she contemplates
revenge on Gilgamesh.
You are there
besides Sanjaya
as he telepathically broadcasts
the frozen battle of Kuru
to his blind king.
You are there
helping Potiphar’s wife
pick a name for herself
at last.
You are there with Mary Magdalene,
sharing tips on
how to get it on with Jesus.
You and I
walked the streets of
Telegraph Avenue in Oakland
back when Too Short
posted hip hop updates on phone booths,
when adult videos had plots,
when record stores were not quaint,
when street Maoists told us to study Albania,
and when Huey Newton was still a doctor.
And from
two pacific rim FM signals
you spoke to us.
You spoke from Moscow
just before Chernobyl.
You spoke from Ghana,
in the language of Twi.
You spoke
after an interview with Betty Friedan,
she screaming where’s my taxi
where’s my taxi
where’s my taxi
2
The great radio goddess lives on.
She monitors the heartbeats of children receiving
hourly instructions from Instagram.
She follows the Twitter wars
over which nation really owns Lake Malawi.
She whispers into the homeless vans
and tents and sleeping bags
on West 12th Street in Little Rock
and Water Street in Santa Cruz
and Divisadero Street in San Francisco.
And I know that you are there with her.
You are there, now
shielded by
her great mane of magnetic tape feathers,
and all hearing digital ears.
You are there
asking Khadijah inappropriate questions
about Mohammed;
telling the Pandava brothers
to stop putting their wives
up for wager at dice;
advising Yaśodharā to forget about the Buddha;
and begging Sarah to stop whining
about the baby thing
and go to community college
and get her degree.
You and I
walked the humid
beach streets of San Diego
and you shape shifted
before me
into the young Margaret Sanger,
and then into Emma Goldman,
and then into Lucy Parsons.
No gods, no masters, you declared.
And I, of course, dutifully agreed.
But now I believe in the radio goddess.
Because when I die
perhaps someone will imagine me
carried to the heavens by her as well.
Then we will have coffee somewhere,
you and I.
And you will show up late,
give me a hug,
say you’ve got to go,
then run off to interview
a famous porn star
from Mars.
San Francisco
June, 2019
Janice Windborne was a programmer at KPFA-FM in Berkeley in the 1980s, News Director for KPBS-FM in San Diego in the 1990s, and a Professor of Communications at Otterbein University in Columbus, Ohio. She died of cancer in May. A gofundme campaign is accepting contributions for her memorial.
