The details don’t matter
Is what they say.
The band was crazy and just started doing things that way.
And people followed. Pitifully, because they followed.
The details don’t matter.
Think of everyone you love. Do you care about their details?
No, you just love them. The details don’t matter.
Oh but they do.
Now comes the part of the poem which turns; the theme becomes new.
(It changed—so it must true.)
Details matter a lot.
How complex, this rot.
How nuanced, this dying, which is all;
A dying which began when you were small.
Dying, so everything has to be done quickly.
Nothing can wait. The bad
And the good both happen fast
(Ahh that’s right. The past.)
So you aren’t sure if your luck
Is leading to some other disaster, or not,
Thinking and doing tied up in the rot
That is happening; you aren’t really thinking at all.
Your life, both fast and slow, the innumerable details which appall,
Don’t stop accumulating, they
Are the monster and the dribbling lagoon.
The poem’s middle ground is the moon.
“Do something, poem!” you cry,
Regretting and embracing the big goodbye,
As you paint the lean, abstract moon
With the regrets that must come soon—
In such a way that a poem’s art
Will recognize, hunt down, eat every juicy part.
You know what will be there in the end?
Strange laughter, coming from a strange friend;
The insults, the comforts, we doubt, (but like a dog—what do you want?) attend.