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neal muzak does the adirondacks
this is not florida, neal realizes
not because all the sunsets are behind
the mountains, but the jukeboxes
never play motown
sometimes they have buffet, but if you don’t
have reggae next to it, there is no sense
they never have much of anything
that wasn’t created in the early 80’s
still when you are doing your wiggling
worm, hip daddy-o beat dance of humid love
music is only secondary
with a sweaty saranac beer in his hand
he jerks to the music and sharpens the corners
of his eyesight for interesting designs
for thoughts about what might go down fast
and how love can be contemplated only by doing
there it is, salvation
in the form of long straight hair
a tie-dye t-shirt and misty ganja-land eyes
god don’t let her offer me poetry
he thinks
it will be so bad
so bad that it sucks brain cells
from my very being
let her be a mandolin player
who at best composes music
but not C-plus
composition 101 student
willing to put her intimate drivel
down on paper, worse saved to a hard drive
and backed up on disk, where it does no one
any good
the man who would gladly take
a minimum wage job if it allowed him
the time to create perfect thoughts about
the sun disappearing in a nuclear wave of glory
finds a seat at the bar and another saranac
and lets the girl fade into a conversation
with the bar owner
this might be one of his worse moments
if he isn’t careful
if he falls pray to the jukebox
and a belief his two quarters
could change anything tonight
but neal holds tight, takes a draw on his beer
and realizes even as an artist
a bass playing poet, none-the-less
he will have to draw the line
he will have to let stagnant
musical curiosity dictate
and just continue to dance
beer in hand
remembering the sunsets of key west
and now,
the wonderful smell of a balsam pillow
