Our first night I came out Of the hotel bathroom to find him With the sheets pulled up to his chin, Saying in a small high voice, I just had the most beautiful Experience of my life. I turned, Face bare, to the television To see the Doobie Brothers. Remember the eleven-year-old Superfan—Paisley—who was Crazy for Michael McDonald?
Sounds like an angel somehow, She said. I heard electric plums Of an eight-voice synthesizer Playing people at the beginning Of the world. The harmonies Were closer than I remember: Family, blood harmonies.
I am Hiding from my high part here, My harmonizers. What does it mean To thrill to the past? To finger The zippers on ’70s jumpsuits And wonder who sold Kenny Loggins His scarves?
Everyone pretending They were a swamp creature Or a shaft of circus light falling through A stained glass window—why? Art travels forwards and backwards In time. In the car on the way Back from the boneyard beach, We discussed Sensual Songs For Eight-Year-Olds.
Mine was Old black water, keep on rollin’. Jason’s was Starship: “We Built This City.” “When this came on I would leave my body. Is this even allowed?” It’s like this.
Your parents are driving You home through some newly Minted night—after a concert, Movie, church festival. You are Resting your head against the window And your heart is leaping out Into some filled-to-the-brim future Skin. Still, you are being carried, This is necessary to the feeling.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
