American Self Portrait

IT'S NOT THAT 


NO ONE


IS LISTENING




IT'S JUST THAT


EVERY ONE


IS TALKING

Self Portrait: Rejected Pop Song (after Dean Rader)

I am not the metronome

I am not God’s sense of timing

I am not the song stuck in your head

I am not the hit single, not the single

You are not the record company

You are not the music scene, not its artists

You are not hell’s amplified accordion

You are not the Billboard charts

Don’t tell me you’re the pitch corrector

Don’t tell me you’re the _____, the _____

Don’t tell me you’re the golden reach around

Don’t tell me you’re the new Motown

Just tell me you’re the spirit of soul

Just tell me you’re the perfect pair of headphones

Just tell me you’re the brown note, the brown note

Just tell me you’re the arpeggio

No one is the conductor

No one is the violinist’s bow

No one is the Grand Ole Opry stage

No one is the soloist’s anxiety

We are the inspiration

We are the groove

We are the sound, the sound

We are this the

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne (draft 3)

This heaven gives me migraine - Gang of Four

Helicopter blades whir and cut the air
over the city of good neighbors. The mall
sits empty between the catholic church
and the police station. The suspect is on
foot through the neighborhood.

Kids at the library after school, the computer
at home doesn't work. Cops station themselves
by the high school every day after class.
"Be true to your school," was written in
a different time, a different world.

Discount stores choke the boulevard
where families flocked to after Sunday
services. A plane takes off from the runway
of the municipal airport. It gains altitude,
flies over the city and towards the sea.