Sunrise on a cloudy day
we are still up from last night’s party
watching videos
and talking about rock and roll
“Is he hot?”
you ask, gesturing to the flickering screen
The dead man pouts back at us, his immortal soul captured and pixelated
captivating in turn
“Well, he’s dead, which makes it weird to say…
but yes…
Yes, he was gorgeous.”
Was.
Still he pouts back at us
his dark eyes piercing and almost dismayed at what I just said
And worse:
“I have that poster,” I murmur…
“…at the jam space.”
Then you, well into your cups, think of another of his songs we should listen to
and an interview
and now a live performance
grainy footage as you tell me:
“See, that’s rock and roll… Every single chord, it’s like a stabbing,
saying ‘fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…’
That’s the way it should be!”
and I am a little relieved as we move on
and the dead man scowls his judgement at me no longer
And I don’t dare tell you what transpired hours earlier:
a new temporary friend at that bar asks me “who’s your guy?”
when I tell her she says I’m so lucky
and I should cook for you
and you’re “so hot he’s actually beautiful”
The dead man scowls at me for even thinking
of another
dead or alive
And he too whispers to me that I should cook for you…
…if you will let me…
We keep watching videos, but now others’ instead of the dead man’s.
And I keep thinking:
Nothing’s going on
…except beneath the surface.
