This song is grad school. This song thinks that you can change
the world with a poem, though it also suspects that this is a stupid thing to
believe. This song knows a thing or two about post-colonial theory, though it
would rather blow its brains out than discuss post-colonial theory with anyone
ever again. This song leaves a two dollar tip for the girl who hands him a cup
of coffee in the morning because he wants her to know that he’s not just some
asshole. (This song cannot afford to leave two dollar tips for cups of coffee.)
This song knows some big words, but doesn’t know how to make them signify. This
song knows which bars in town feature the best happy hours. This song owns a
t-shirt that says Cars Are Coffins.
This song voted for Ralph Nader. This song knows some really cool bands that he’d
love to turn you on to sometime. This song is a regular at the plasma center.
This song will totally attend your poetry reading. This song feels dense and complex
things for his vintage road bike. This song can’t imagine ever working a
full-time job. This song has thought about teaching in South Korea. This song
hates getting up before nine. This song isn’t really sure where he’ll be next
year.
Men and women in your mid to late twenties pursuing graduate degrees for
no good reason: this is your song!
This is our song!
Listen to the words—
Lies and betrayals
Fruit covered nails
Electricity and lust
They’re nonsense. They don’t say anything; they don’t mean
anything. But listen to the ache in his voice, or the bassline urgently prodding
things along, or the drums staggering to keep up. That’s where the feeling is. That’s
where the point is.
And you know what it’s like, maybe, to walk through your
neighborhood early in the evening, when the streetlights are flickering on, and
there is a swell in your chest, suddenly, a physical thing, almost knocking you
off balance—the light is fading from behind you, and you open your eyes fully
for the first time all day, you don’t need to squint anymore. And you stop— the
trees are hissing overhead. Your neighbors across the street-- a middle-aged couple-- are talking in low
voices on their front porch, and you wave hello to them. They wave back. Nice
night! the man calls. Nice night! you call back. A couple down the block is
walking a basset-hound. They’re twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, and the
basset-hound is their practice kid. They’re standing on the sidewalk in front
of a low row of shrubs that the dog is smelling so passionately it's almost an erotic act. The boy’ holds the
leash absently with his left hand, and the girl is standing close to him,
rocking on her heels. She’s wearing a sundress.
You will want badly in moments like these for your life to
be larger than it is. You will want to throw candy from a parade float. You will want to swing-dance with strangers on the street. But most evenings pass quietly and they’re not equipped to accommodate you every time you feel big
things on the sidewalk
And so you go get a beer. Or you write a short story. And your
fondest wish is that this short story might someday be published in a magazine
with a name like Wooden Spoon or The Utica Review of Short Fiction.
And this is sad, right? Yes, this is a little sad.
But words are what you have right now, and so you will use
words. They will not expel what you’re feeling, and they will not quench your
sense of urgency, but they’re what you have. So use what you have.
You’ll figure it out someday. You’ll know where you’re going
someday. In the meantime, write a poem, or build a sculpture from things you
find in a dump, or invite over your friends on a weekday afternoon and write a
song with them. Keep moving. Make some
noise. You’ll figure it out someday.
