June 2002

Looking for Angel 2000

  

In a mad rush to capture the moment I am

A dither of notes and hand-rocked jiggle 

Fittings, jackleg musical plumber, putting

The last minutes of the 20^th century to bed

For the lonesome night of forever to come.

 

A purely auto-erotic evening, everybody

Shouting for the band to play, “Y.M.C.A.”

Some weird guy’s grinning thru a trellis.

Another dancer, decked out in leather,

Is doing the hoochy grind in a doorway.

Old couples waltz by, floating beneath 

The dazzle of a hand blown chandelier,

Playing a role in the age of disguise,

But Angel 2000 didn’t come to the stage.

 

I am always turned on by a sweet being

At the foot of the stage who appears to

Want more of me than there really is, one

Who understands what I’m doing up here,

Like, where the notes come from, where

They go when I finish with them, why sex

Has everything to do with inspiration and

Nothing to do with the outcome, although

The opposite is more often the case.

 

No dance floor inspiration is out there.

No cause and effect note makes any

Difference, moves anyone to be moved.

No eyebrows raise or pupils twinkle,

Only the zombie lidded sleepwalkers

Drift past my noisemaking, with hats,

Party horns, mock replicas of my own.

 

They appear and disappear in the night

Taking their good times with them, same

Crowd where ever they go, absorbing

Alcohol and music like a spongy mass

In constant motion. Year 2000 is theirs

For the asking, they can pull it all down

And take it home, trailing the tired

Streamers along the street, its used up

Colors far too grim to think about. 

  

It’s over, rivets rusting, spans creaking:

A civil war of the world, monkey trial of

Belief vs. science, science vs. civility

Where no one could win, yes, it was an

Auto-erotic event for all those involved,

The invention that took sex on the road

Has everything to do with inspiration and

Nothing to do with the outcome, although

The automotives are more often the case.

 

I still look for Angel 2000, hanging on,

Surfing the dreaminess in naked awe,

Boundless as any wide-eyed wonder.

 

But, things are cooking now, my voice

Returned with a mighty crackle, my

Head clear, and if I could will it, I would

Let it rain down copper coinage on all,

Songs more meaningful than reasoned.

Though the music of my life is pointless

The exercise seasoned me like a skillet.  

©Jimmy Warner, 2002