What thoughts I have of you today, Brian Fitzpatrick,
for I overpriced garlic jellies in a white room with a pounding vein in the head
and in exhaustion I turned to Michael Macdonald's smooth soulful sounds,
dreaming of your iTunes.
What baritone! What beats! Pastel polo shirts in the lyrics, floating yachts in the bass?--and you, Loren Poin, what were you doing leaning in your white linen suit?
I saw you, Brian Fitzpatrick, bearded, disgruntled student choosing chorizo out of the fridge.
I heard you telling that story about your math teacher touring with Jane's Addiction. Of Showbiz Pizza. Of when what bulb blooms.
I followed the voice in my memory as I stacked jars in neat rows, talking about television shows and irreverence, and thought of the most amazing Meatloaf air-band ever.
Where are we going, Brian Fitzpatrick? Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I hear yacht rock and dream of an odyssey and feel absurd)
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i dont think im overstating this when i say this may be the single greatest single piece of literature ever recorded
ReplyDeleteTry this...im htmlretarded
ReplyDeletewell. i know what poem 9/80 is going to be about.
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