bob dylan looks nervous then otherworldly at
madison square garden he welcomes neil young, johnny cash &
june carter to name a few & he commands space like it is a
small room with three walls.
george harrison dies perhaps to save this personal embarrassment.
(clapton talks far too much, the perennial guest that never leaves) &
there is nothing like a tribute – sidney pointier himself
praises oprah twice a week. the trick surely to organise your own
panegyric, your own movie starring your self as action hero?
(i am working on an autobiographical script, it will be set on an
offshore oil-rig: i have creative control over the truth (unlike
cummings i will not die of brackets, or wondering)). new worlds of unmusic
might result: delillo strums a six-string & murukami a twelve – only
after shaking my hands naturally, this manly gesture
solid as a concrete body of work: cohen plucks a dour zither,
his face picked up from a low angle almost an afterthought
ashberry holds his thumbs, looks at his shoes (my wife smiling
in the front row (& david, richard & jill play but as non-celebrity
friends (their axes little bigger than tambourine, bells, or maracas
(i speak little, i care about the performative aspect (i ooze ‘hall of fame’ quality
(your face on the wall, your star underfoot, the uncomfort & disquiet of
adulation not allowing retreat into a subconscious world:
radiohead my obscure scruffy little instrumentalist fillers:
a million people cheer for fucking ages: standing.
(deserve an all-american tribute of your own? write a poem, leave me a link…you may have already won!)