Old Soul
I can see you
the darkness curving around your child-body like a globe,
your transistor radio like a moon,
all those notes encircling you like stars.
As in some bedside fable about the sea
you swallowed the gigantic moon
and it sunk into the core of your being,
waiting for its service to the sun.
Your axis tilted to pearl notes and then you shone.
When your father saw you shining like a jewel
he was at your ear
and put you to work chipping at the glow,
throwing his mantle over you to cover up the truth.
Every eye was on you in the studio,
each day longer,
each day hotter.
One day the dry L.A. hills bore up smoke like testimony,
and you were sure you’d lit the hills like tinder
with sparks of sound from your teenage symphony.
You closed your hands around the reels
and ash dropped from your fists like sand.
***Here's where the poem gets bumpy and I couldn't quite work it out...so my latest, way cut back version is below***
The fire wasn’t your fault.
It consumed you
until your moon blazed
your fingers hollowed with the emptiness of aborted songs.
You still feel the gape where it used to reside,
I know. But Brian, I still see the moon inside you,
and all that bright beauty of your starry seashore transistor notes.
fin
***Okay, here's my tortuous crap-that's-left-over version ***
How long could you keep your sun reflector from (searing/burning) a hole (right) through you?
The sounds began to rain from your fingers,
the piano drenched in a quintessence of light,
the sounds of re-creation.
The more you (bled/poured/showered) song, the more mirrors you became.
The fire wasn’t your fault.
It consumed you
until your moon burst into char and ash,
the specks and granules like a broken artery,
your fingers hollowed, the empty (spaces/wombs) of aborted songs.
You still feel the gape where it used to reside,
I know. But Brian, I still see the moon inside you,
and all that bright beauty of your starry seashore transistor notes.
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