Saturday, December 02, 2006

He stands in a depression.
What you would call his “low place”.
The altitude of that earth beneath his feet
will always be lesser than
your deepest elevation,
and he…
He calls this existence
To each his own,
and he certainly owns this one.
Not that it’s something he purchased.
No, this utopia was
An asset he never signed for, yet it’s
undeniably his.
A package deal with
generic label.
It was utopia in its most literal sense.
A word which translates as
A noun which interprets as
So how do you get from the
literal translation of nowhere to this
perceived rapture of absolute nirvana?

Good point.
Good fucking point.
Should you figure that out,
he’d sure like to know.

Until then, he exists alone in his
stadium sized sinkhole.
And though a multitude of bleachers
array its steep perimeter
there will be no applause,
for he remains
a solipsistic nation of one.

Above his head black flags wave
and there on the loud speakers,
the late John Lennon
sings his sub-terrestrial anthem
of self-sustained nihilism.

It’s a somber tune.
The perfect libretto for
solo a cappella.
Not the sort of anthem
to put a tear in your eye,
but just the thing for explaining
why the one that’s there
will never leave.
Yes, John’s vocals serenade empty seats.
His melancholy melody drifts upon
stale silent air.
A sustained echo of woe
amidst a stadium with
far too many
oh so inviting exits.

“He’s a real nowhere man.
Sitting in his nowhere land.
Making all his nowhere plans,
for nobody.”

And what are such lyrics if not
to die for?

©06 Jack Hubbell

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