I caught you whirling ‘neath an aether cyclone moon
Fairest and dark, the streets all a-shimmer
Beneath your flurried banner-limbs
Waving as though a breeze were just now your just god
The cotton-warm glow of the halo of street lights
Were slanted pillars propping all those nights we chased
Morrison through celluloid frames,
False but bearing the brunt of all our hopes
In cinemas long locked and cut away
My god you can never go home
When home to you is a past already interred
Deep in cemeteries locked barren
Within the dying of your cyclone-moon heart
But we dug for our own truths then
(young enough to think we knew it)
And we learned to say Manzarek
where others chanted Jim
In days of Kilmer killing it outright
With every play of Tombstone on repeat
Or Marsellus Wallace speaking strong and low
Over and over to mark the summers
Where once there had been only carbonite,
Where once there had only ever been Han’s Falcon
And the invincible felt-fur of ever-changing fedoras
Which caught our child-souls up like kites
And bore them high aloft on winds born
Of the rustle of comicbook paper
and that sacred ocean breeze
The cigarette butts on the cinema courtyard
Like so many spent shotgun shells
Spent out worshipping their beer-bottle towers
Perched on cold concrete, dead to the touch
And dead again in the sardonic waxing moon
Of Gilmour and Waters and Mason and Wright
And to think, we thought we owned the night
When all we had were cars and half-formed dreams
And both of those barely running on fumes
Breathed out in the cadence of the thoughts
Of what we just knew adults should be
And we thought we’d get there
One day, we said
One day,
Was it good for you too?
BenjaminBrunson.com 