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Poetry inspired by The Beatles for The Beatles Musical Extravaganza. |
Celebrating the magic of The Beatles. These entries are poems for "The Beatles Musical Extravaganza"  .
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| It's not you; never was. It's me. I'm always in love with a love that stays in my head. I can't seem to make the words do their simple things and introduce myself. My eyes avert on their own. I turn into an internal, inescapable tension. And I don't want to just know you. I want to share secrets and dreams and escapes. Your very last set of firsts. But it's me; always was. Even if the only thing stopping us from being a capital U-S us is me, I still wouldn't be able to get out of my own way. Imagine me, saying everything in this entire poem, but in the five or ten seconds it takes when we pass each other. Why am I always the one to let myself down? It's the only love I've known to last forever, and it's the longest-lasting love in my past. |
| The routine remains unchanged. Workin' all the live long day, then off to the same bars with the crew, hoping we'll cross paths before last call. I know I probably should text you, but that was hours ago and maybe I'm not in the best of conditions at the moment. Besides, I don't want you to think I think you're only worthy of my time after dark. Another missed opportunity at something more substantial. Still, I can't get that first night off my mind. It plays in a movie behind my forehead as slowly burning, just like the liquor goes down and the tab goes up. Instead, I'll lazily flirt, halfheartedly, with nary a backup plan 'til I carry myself home. And I'll do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that. Work, rinse, repeat. Ya know, I'll feel alright, even if it's not you walking through my door. Or anyone else, for that matter. |
| This one time, at band camp... I was goofin' around with my fellas Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Tich. We were back behind the ramshackle wooden stage, noodlin' and finger-pickin' when the fair ginger flutist strolled past, twirling her instrument like a baton. Discretely checkin' us out, I say. Now, none of us had much luck with the ladies; we became known as "The Lonely Hearts Club". It could have been pity, or a marriage of convenience, spending a couple weeks with the same people in tight quarters, that led her to approach me. To myself I admitted she was adorable, but why would she talk to me? I mean, I'm not ugly or anything, but I'm far from being the best-lookin' guy on the campground. She blew a few notes like seductively eating a banana, and I melted when she paused to ask me if I wanted to let the evening go. We broke away from the group and into the woods, singing along to songs we'd practiced and dancing made-up little jigs. As we moved in for a smooch, stupid ol' Billy Shears from out of nowhere yelled "Ewww! The flute chick is gonna make out with that dirtbag! No way!" When I turned to admonish him she bolted away quick, and began to avoid me ever since. |
| Eleanor Rigby attends the masses for all the bodies she buries. Her Instagram leaves clues that nobody notices because she's practically invisible; not even Father McKenzie remembers her last name. The people of the St. Peter's Parish Church community turn on their televisions to the news to find another stranger's gone missing. Rigby just stares. She knows the next victim may one day be herself if someone catches on and outs her as the cause of the many recent disappearings. And of all the lonely people, she knows where they have gone. |
| Fun fact: I'm an insomniac of the highest degree when I hit the sack. Turnin' and tossin' without a wink to give or a snore to escape. My dreams keep me awake and my bed is a shitshow of unintentional mistakes. Tried to count all the sheep but they're dead. The wool's been shorn. I am a mess. Pillows suffocate my sleep, choking and I wish I were joking. I'm old woke. How do I fight this off? I dunno. Nothing's on TV. No one answers their phones. It's me all alone to determine my fate. The bat is in my hand as I step to the plate. Strike one, strike two, strike three but I'm never called out and I never fall asleep. I'm tired and tattered. Nothing matters. Nightmares happen as soon as I hit the mattress. I overthink my overthinking, scattering my scattered thoughts across the fruited plains. I'm so tired that my tired is tired but it's wired and fully firing. I cannot unawake, I'm serious. No closer to sleep than I am deliriums. Almost ready, on the verge to snap. If it comes down to it, I will stab you for a nap. |
| It's nearly impossible to see under the lights of the club but I can feel her by the way the music makes her move. Precisionally possessed in 4/4 time, around 125 BPM. She has me dancing, this faceless person, as if I too have no other choice. We move in, we move out. We groove in and we shout it all about. When she dips closer our eyes lock, only to be undone by rhythm. The unforced force. A stranger no more. That last beat drops; she is a gasp away and these eyes tell me what to do. Leant in, eyelids drawn, a swallow for confident courage and lips parted for departure like she knew I would. |
| Jojo's got a way with words the likes of which no one's heard before. Must be all that Cali grass, you know, the kind that goes puff-puff-pass; gets him on his ass like quick fast into quicksand. He thinks he'll never last here cuz blame is shameless, fitting insincere. Wants to get back but doesn't know to where when life is tongue-tangled in fear of the double-talk in his squawk box. Jojo rocks, knockin' off Loretta's socks. And sweet Loretta lives in my building, keeps to herself like the last little lost wing. A bird of many feathers but a flock to none. Got eyes for Jojo; sees too close to the sun. I watch them from a distance like fog, a smog I can't exhale and a settling bog. She's childless and child-like, fighting an urge to surge like a firefly. Thrift store dresses under her wig, and jeans that hang without a landing. Doesn't talk but high-heel walks and you'd never understand she's really a man. Jojo's getting back his share of the land, learning how to walk before taking a stand while Loretta's getting anything she can so she can get back to getting over being a man. |
| The shine of divine light in your eyes when you smile. How the grip between our fingers pulsates through the all of me as we walk. The hum in your every step. What you're really saying in saying nothing as your embrace fills the room. All these powerfully unsaid things are what I hear the most whenever you're so far from me. They tell me to know you always take me with you everywhere you go, and we're never truly apart. |
| A mutual friend said you were thinking of leaving, but didn't say to where you might be going. It'd been some time since we spoke; I should let you know I was thinking about you, and wish you success in your new adventure. But you know life has a method of playing hell with the way the world works; a fresh onslaught of new demands on the daily because we don't already have enough to do as it is. I knew it was late, but between us, that was never a problem. A far-off siren startled me, pulled me away from my pre-bedtime routine just enough for me to see my phone. It was the call going straight to voicemail that was most surprising, as I never knew you to want to miss out on anything. Left you as quick a message as I could (you know how much I despise leaving them, especially since you always answer). Saw our friend again a few weeks later. The day-to-days had been so hectic I hadn't realized you never replied. It was then he told me...you had gone to see the light. No number, no notice, and no return. Maybe I could've saved you, but I couldn't even try. |
| If it's true that your life flashes before your eyes right as you're about to die, my death will not be immediate. I'm not special but I have done some extraordinary things, true. Just as everyone has in their own way, perhaps. But fitting them into a flash sequence? The things I have memories for cannot be easily explained, not even in my long-winded roundabout storytelling problem. What we need to do is frame time differently and if we pay attention, the day begins when we're born and ends when we die. So novel a concept, there never could be any other way. |
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