a so-so night sleeping on the traffic island
but the sun of all afternoons + an inflatable lounge
seems to nullify last night’s excess (who said quan
played like he didn’t want to be there? who said
steam is for blowing off, every now & then?) now
everything feels just okay & the morning blank-period
just a laugh, just terrific as alex takes last place
on the bill. he’s filling a stage like other chill-out artists
only ever promise to do, at other times, in other venues,
in other street–mag profiles, in other legendary anecdotes.
this glow is perhaps life as it really could be:
all the radio-friendly numbers you love pop up
(even ‘amazing’ requested by the singleted recovery novice);
a late elvis blues jump surprises & rocks; then feeling spills over
with a prelude a verse of ‘the joker’. it doesn’t matter now
he doesn’t know the refrain. the sun goes down, i feel fine &
alex’s voice parts molecules before setting them in vibration.
i’m thinking this might be the perfect way to describe a weekend.