I Wish Brian Wilson Had Just Gone Home

Rumor, myth, history, half-truth, fact or whatever…on the afternoon of the day JFK was assassinated, Brian Wilson was schedule to lay down some everybody into the pool and dance type Beach Boy tracks. He didn’t do that stuff.

Brian Wilson and Mike Love wrote the “Warmth Of The Sun.” This music haunted me at first listen. Continues to do so. Not so much the song, not to diss the lyricist, Mr Love, but the melancholia in Wilson’s music as reflected by subtle chord and melodic reversals, stunned me as a kid. And I swear, right there, right then I knew Wilson was a genius and that popular music had been changed forever.

Gush Gush, get on with the poem.

I Wish Brian Wilson Had Just Gone Home

After Pet Sounds and Caroline No
it was all down to ground round
for me

Even when Lester Bangs
bragged Holland was Bach
and Rick James backhanded
‘bout that Psychedelic Barber
Shop Quartet…
well, how up town can
one be

My trouble
with
the trouble
of the
right here
in River City
riff
is all were too quick
to trombone those
dusty tones of
americana
cum
commercial
nirvana
and suggest it
all a coup
of low-brow
high speed
car culture
to gear down
to rev up
a surfer girl’s
bikini clad
bottom end
to add to
the bottom line
of the then Big Three

Fun Fun Fun

But no self respecting
self made capitalist
would be caught in
the board room
adjusting his sock
garters while
listening to,
“The Warmth Of The Sun”

recognizing the discord
in those triplets
understanding the futility
in the harmony

But Smile

Never Mind

Surfs Up

Short Hauling–Prose Poem

Bored with my toys, I bounce over to talk with you, but your commitment to communicate still broken. But you smile awhile. And grin through your gin and tonic. Less ironic, the timely liquor store delivery. And on my dime we pour some more, and get around to pout about your ground round politics, and my meat and potato culture, which gives you the vapors, allowing my escape to episode with another broken plaything. This one equipped with long legs and a short attention span, she glad hands compliments while wound collecting, and  cement mixing conceits. Having no truck with me, I again shift gears.

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