The day’s a crown we’d all want to wear, yet
few silent stars survived the transition to talkies.
Johnny Weissmuller, as per his dying wish, was
counted out with three signature Tarzan yells.
The lord of bad choices made seventy-nine whereas second wife, Lupe Vélez,
(Mexican Spitfire) rode out a cloud of Seconal at thirty-eight.
Many felt that was Gary Cooper’s fault. Maybe it was.
In Keanu Reeves’ return to the stage in Winnipeg, as Hamlet
no less, the audience broke into spontaneous laughter
on the line: “My excellent good friends!”
Life’s a bad writer. Ask the lead singers of
passable hair bands now working shifts as greeters
while Rush reigns as mid-America’s mid-market monsters.
Great art demands a great audience. Frye boots and mullets,
see-through net vests and poets’ blouses—you can guess
where things went awry with this particular cult.
Much like this crowned day; its worry it won’t pass for normal.
Normal meaning the mean, mean meaning what it usually does.
The world drags you down. Still, there are doves, gold sounds,
bees, having trouble with their direction. Wild flower, I love
you every hour. Isn’t everything alive a kind of come-on?
Shadows of geese, gulls, the biggest asteroids rolling
over your shoulders as you ride the August light.
Doorbell’s been disabled, screen door latched, still you’d
swear each morning you were roused by knocking.
The Witnesses never ask for shit, but look at them—
the script, the outfits—they’re selling something.
So many different ways of doing, maybe the only sure
thing is the best bad guitar solo in arena rock history.
Check the bootlegs: that dude never does it any better.
Common sense holds you can’t doubt you’re doubting.
But find me anything interesting that’s not done at least that.