As soon as there was music, the world became two
in terms of philosophical love,
and consciousness became a conspiracy. It was brand new.
Confidence which allowed more confidence blew up in Man.
Survival mode gave way to furs of fashion.
We root for rebels of tribalism now that we know we can.
As soon as he wrote melodies there were legal problems.
Do children still play outside until dark?
The sociologist makes notes—which, if you want, can be worked up into a poem.
It was simply because it was necessary, that John Lennon,
who was depressed and afraid and cried “Help,” shone.
They were making “Rosemary’s Baby” and photographing the giraffe.
It seemed everyone was out to get Frank Sinatra.
When paranoia struck him he “just had to laugh.”
Elevator music has its lauded alums
in tragic personas finding a template in Brian Jones
who are quaint like verse. “It is the evening of the day/I sit and watch the children play”
sang the Rolling Stones.
They pretended to be the anti-Beatles but they knew
we were on the brink of an age of passivity and leisure:
“In sleepy London town there’s just no place for a street fighting man” is still true.
Mick Jagger is black. And so are you.
Joe Biden is black. I am black. Caitlin Clark, too.