a not entirely untrue story

Tonight

I found her Google signature picture

Next to her comment

Under a video

On youtube

 

The War on Drugs

Singing to us about “Holding On”

Acoustic set

Adam Granduciel’s voice, someone comments

Is just like Dylan’s

I think – it is reminiscent

But oh so much grander

Sliding home

On a fine dust of silver

Yearning always for moments

Unreachable

 

She thinks, she writes

These boys are golden

They were there for her

She explains

When others

(Like me, I presume)

Were not

 

And the boys have fashioned

The perfection of regret

Into the perfect expression

A horrific muse

Turned sonic hologram

That stands before me now

Haunting

 

Because I loved her so much

And was afraid to show it

vocations

babies know what to do

at the Mellow Mushroom

rant and scream

mom's know, too

wisk them off to the restroom

firmly, with panoramic care

 

the TV’s know

what tune they play

Sponge Bob and ball games

 

and I am learning

to attend to my own business

yeah, real slowly, I am

 

read my magazine

about the Desert Fathers

waiting for my meatball hoagie

John the Dwarf, Abba Anthony

theirs was an interesting era

did nothing but toil

enjoyed their labor

no eye on the fruit

the gravity

we all mean well, I am thinking

two boys watching at the window

for their mom to arrive in an SUV

baristas laughing, singing

along with canned music

all the Catholic school kids

upstairs, yelling, guffawing

 

joy and boredom play out

even here, at Corporate Cafe

 

and when the world crashes

when the Earth drowns

when people abuse their positions

like the people before them

and people rally to keep them 

right where they are

it's still true, I believe

we all mean well

 

something just gets lost

between the rainy afternoon

and the umbrella

the mistake

and the recompense

the danger

and the overreaching defense

the fear for your own survival

and the fence you build

to keep out the ghosts

 

offer some grace

maybe, be forgiving

don't let those bastards

get away with it, oh, no doubt

but don't hate

 

that's the gravity

that keeps the whole ball of dung

rolling ever faster, heavier

downhill

origins

if time flows

in 2, or more

directions

Brad Mehldau playing

I Am the Walrus

might be the origin

notes rising, smashing

ocean waves, vying for

the sun's attention

and poor, ickle Johnny

letting his knickers down

the weirdness of it all,

born at the ocean floor

reach out

to see me

is to see yourself

somehow

fat and dour

ill at ease, never still

you may notice

a small bit of your grace

a smidgen of your global neurosis

in any case

you're stuck with me

as all of us

are stuck with each other

reflections of reflections

reach out

make a new friend today

you will be making friends

with yourself

all over again

ending the age-old animosity

covering the soft heart

of our vulnerability

that touching each other

we will tremble and weep

and that pain of joy

will be our solidarity