Birds

The days are sharpening into long dreary halls.
No getting over or under,
trailing fingers along white walls.
The eyes that still hope for better and
the struggle, compressed sigh,
words ooze from under breath.
There is a surprise for the call
to fly.  The wings have been lost.
Do you know why?
They say female birds are bigger,
more drab. They carry so much
weight and it makes them so
bitter and so very very
sad.

A study

A fantastic and embarrassingly whimsical panegyric of the musicians that would and did.

or

The Panegyric That Was Long in Coming – or – (For the Music)

This is no apologia for something that was promised long ago and never delivered (until now).  This is no excuse to become someone of worth to a group of certain people (namely the band).  This is not a testament of talent (namely the writer’s).

This is an inspiration, a demarcation of something special that is festering in the plastered, carpeted, gilded heart of suburbia.  It is a love letter.  It is a simple offering to a non-entity that is music, but if music had no entity, it will certainly assume a shape, albeit blurry shape, after these words have painted a wardrobe for it.  The color of this wardrobe is blue, a blue like a screen door swinging shut at dusk when the crickets begin to sing.

The shirt this music wears is sky blue.  Blue like the hue of the ocean when the sun’s corona makes it smile.  Its pants are worn faded blue Levis, or, the color of your first bike after the sixth fall.  It is the blue of our childhood in the shock of impending adulthood.  This music is the silent blue flashes of a television screen on white walls when the hour hand has just passed midnight.  This music is Voltron action figure blue, tiny and breakable yet still menacing and exciting with its sharp plastic corners and metamorphosis.  Blue like the Orphic pulsations of a star, solitary but brave in a sea of unforgiving black.

On any normal day you can catch this now painted thing swaggering with a limp on any sidewalk.  It is there in our everyday perceptions lurking behind a cloud, splashing noisily down a riverbed, playing tag on the metallic sheen of high rise buildings, or careening off the fenders of blue automobiles in noisy city streets.  This music is Blue Ravine – the main street of a sleepy, but perpetually waking suburb, the aorta of a heart that doesn’t know it’s beating.