how I’d love to dream let alone sleep it’s night
—Frank O’Hara
The laundry is only begun. Joe just signed on.
Doldrums since Saturday, no real reason. It’s
Sunday. Then fondue. I made a rather long
list I haven’t started on.
People are dancing right now and I’m here
on the couch writing a ‘poem’ – where’s the
sense in that? The bells of reason
will surely ring any
moment now.
Til then, I’ll not name any more names.
Except last night we couldn’t wait for
Cyndi Lauper. Just couldn’t wait. Or
I was in pain from standing four (five?)
solid hours. Otto sweetly patient,
gimps home with the old fart at 12:30am
after Lady Gaga and one of the chicks from
Destiny’s Child. What’s a pop concert for?
What’re my memories of dancing in my bedroom
to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun –
and never to see her live except this place,
me 41, her who knows how old, kids of 20
and 21 scrambling by with a bump and a shove, etc...?
Sure, she’s got a lovely new ‘hit’ now –
one that even grows on you, doesn’t quite exude
the vapors of nostalgia, one I’ll be most happy
to dance at alongside a few assorted eye candy
on my own present-day turf, which is which
ever stomped- and slobbered-upon San Francisco
dancefloor of the moment that pulses with
the rhythms of a vapid-ethereal-electronical
rehash of all things past and pop by way of
a decently-escapist semi-world-renowned
DJ until the cows come home, no drunken
bumps, no live performance, except just this
bash & bash & bash & bash &...
