Singularity

This would be easier
if everyone would stop writing songs about you.

I hear your name in every refrain
sodden with barfly sentimentality
paralysis grasping with uneven hands
(blackout is still the fastest way out of town)
I see your shape among the crowd
or a glimpse of faces not-quite-wrong
looming from induced-stasis dreams
and sometimes nothing
can turn the volume down.

If the musicians would only resign their craft
and the poets forget their dreadful tasks
(and the novelists all give up and go back to accounting,
if the painters were blinded
and the sculptors were broken
and the actors were all forgotten)
every song would still be a story
told in your voice
and every word a piece of yourself.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s