David Bowie (to be played at maximum volume)
By Caroline Magavern
David Bowie (to be played at maximum volume)
I saw you behind me as I looked in the mirror,
Realizing that I could hurt people and trying
to find a pattern in the wind that pressed me
down into the mattress and scattered me among the glitter.
Thank you for helping me put orange and blue against each other
so that I could watch the line wobble.
Thank you, uncharted tears and consequence. Thank you,
you grotesque velvet, you exoplanet, you unblended
eye shadow. I hope you catch me on your view screen.
Alex Chilton
Sixteen-year-old morning in a graveyard,
The favorite of the musicians but not of the people,
My old friend. Tried to teach myself Thirteen
but he could play it easily. Sat next to me in study hall.
Gave me a guitar pick. Gave me
his empty pack of Reds to collage. I don’t know
much, but I know some things. It feels like returning
to the Midwest after living on the cusp, grasping for
Okoboji and Minnehaha, lining up the disposable with
the real cherry and spoon. It feels like an old soul
trapped in young punks dancing at the Music Box in Omaha.
It feels like the alien voice of an unknown generation
turning on the light and sitting on the porch swing.
Lou Reed
I think I really fell in love when I was waking up
from dreams of the Chelsea Hotel and reckoning with March.
Lou, I want to write you a letter. I don’t think you’d want to read it.
To someone who’s been all the badness, all the goodness.
The sea mimicking that undecided heartbeat. I think you’d
understand. I imagine that August night at Max’s was magical.
I’m trying to fill in the blanks here. I’m trying to study
your voices and make friends with everyone. We were
born under the same star. I hope you understand.
Leonard Cohen
You left when my grandmother began to hear again.
Every sound buzzing and looking for a head to settle in,
I would put my faith in you, ugly God.
My voice in her dead ear for the first time, I hope
She didn’t turn on the TV that day. I hope she was peeling
Satsumas in her kitchen. Muttering prayer, words for you
To swallow. I’ve been to your birthplace,
And I took it as my own. You know when I will die.
Carve it in stone and leave it for the robins.