James Agee Park, as the sun comes up,
a truthful ballad chewed out of a
bubble gum queen, disaffected conformist,
playing on my earbuds, soothing my undeath.
Even a program of safe rebellion knows
heartache and abandonment, the emptiness
of knowing even those who love you the most
cannot be turned to, cannot stay awake one single hour.
The sun is sweetest at first light, the world still
half-velvet and welcoming, and it can fool you,
as that bubblegum balllad fades out, ringing your tears
like bells, that there is still magic in this worn out life.
The sun comes. I put up earbuds and mp3 player,
and face the shifting shoals and sucking sands,
and all the devil I feed and wish I could starve out.
The day, that loses me in the crowd, in August sun.
First light, parking on the street before heading in to work.
I sit in the car for a little while longer, in the watery light,
as Anna Netrebko sings “Casta Diva”, and brings enchantment
to this run down place, with the shadows making houses palaces.
I listen to her sing, letting the still and quiet and dim light
soothe me, and give me strength, and even a measure of hope
as I feel my world slipping away from me, the whole universe
going mad. I close my eyes, and make the music infinite.
The song is over, and it’s time to turn of the radio, and grab
my knapsack, and head in to work. To put on that brave, happy
face and not let the fear and lonliness show, just smile through.
It’s Friday, and soon I can hide in my apartment, and let tears come.
Winter’s back again, not quite cast out with that sunny day.
The sky is black and the wind is cold, a few flurries in the air.
Sitting alone, waiting for the trolley, waiting to get home to cry.
Anna Netrebko sings “Song To The Moon” on my headphones,
and the sorrow and the cold will keep away the tears until home.
The sorrow and the cold are at least the truth in this ugly fucking town.
Another shopping center, another gargutuan tabernackle to greed and lust.
Sitting in the cold, a bag by my feet filled with useless shit. Always buy useless shit.
I can’t see the moon from her, but I’d take a Rusalka’s longing if I could swim away.
If I could be real in the way only our best dreams are, with their cracks and longing.
Anna Netrebko sings on, and keeps away the tears, like my old friend winter.
In the darkness of winter I am the most human, and can keep my tears secret.
And the trolley comes, and I get one, and sit with my head down, hood over my head.
I hit repeat, and let Anna sing agian, my reoccuring spell against the pain I hide.
The others do not look. The others do not speak. I want to go home. I want to hide.
I want to drop away my armor and smiles and jokes, tears falling unseen, unashamed.
Curl up into my own embrace and emptiness, and no longer have to perform at all.
Solace comes when you can just be honest, and know it will never get any better.