9:47pm
neil young,
harvest,
out on the weekend.
second scotch—
the one i got
from paula
before she left,
wearing her headphones too,
bowers and wilkins,
wearing my new glasses
taking selfies to send to ari.
earlier we watched a movie
with the kids.
there’s a punk riff
i’ve been fiddling with
that might need a drunken run.
earlier in the day
driving skye to a friend’s house
we listened to bikini kill and le tigre
she played the beastie boys,
i need to watch no direction home
again soon. maybe show the kids.
i knew early on
that it will always be
music and words
and may be a little booze
but mostly words and music
and stories and yearning
and music and words and films
and watching the humming bird
build that nest.
“i wonder if they both build it.”
“ i bet the female does it all by herself,”
mairin says as i watch the tiny bird
gather supplies.
“i think for many birds,
it’s actually the male who makes the nest.”
i wanted it to be true so bad
so as to validate my existence.
each female selects the nest site,
gathers the nesting materials,
and builds the nest entirely on her own.
the awareness is there.
the desire is there.
the attempt is there.
but somehow
i still come up short
helping to make
that fucking nest.
music and words
and may be a little booze
but mostly words and music.
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