THIS ONE
DOES IT FOR ME! |
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A Thought for Today
God rewards the dreamer with continued dreams.
Dear
Ken,
In my opinion, "Is There Life After Tower Records?" from "Intervals", which was Rod's last published book, is one of the best things that Rod
has ever written. If you love this work as much as I do, then you'll understand what I mean when I refer to the poem as a "tour de force".
Sixty-four stanzas of one of the most perceptive glimpses into the loneliness that we all sometimes feel, that loneliness that impels us to
seek out someone, or some thing. (read romance)
What a rollicking, fast paced journey Rod takes us on as his lonely protagonist browses the stacks of the classical section of a "Tower
Records" store in Los Angeles; ostensibly looking for CDs, but in reality seeking fulfillment, validation, and love in almost any form;
participating in the "game". As to the question implicit in the title of
the poem? Well, unfortunately for our heroine - not this day. Ah, but tomorrow would bring another day; another opportunity to grasp the
golden ring, and the Tower would be waiting. The poem is by turns comical, sad, silly, even strangely uplifting; but above all,
perceptive. I smile, I laugh, I cry, and always, always, I come away from it with a deeper understanding of the poem, and I suppose, of life.
That's what a great poem can do for us.
I read "Tower" several times a year and it's always a learning
experience for me. Granted, it is a monumental work, and not something that everyone will "get" the first time that they read it. And of
course, a knowledge of record labels, composers, artists and classical music would enhance their enjoyment of the poem; but that's not
absolutely necessary. The poem is epic in content and proportion, but Rod has thoughtfully provided us with an intermission half-way through
the poem; he gives us a break to visit the lobby for refreshments. *S*
You know Ken, I've always thought that "Is There Life After Tower
Records" deserves far more popularity than it seems to have been shown. I would respectfully suggest, for your readers not familiar with
"Tower", that they give the poem a chance, and I think that it might well become one of their favorites, as it is mine. And if they don't
have "Intervals", I believe that the book is still available from Dwight
at Stanyan by Mail.
Affectionately,
Larry
Thanks (I
think!) for the contribution,
Larry.
This is
undoubtedly the longest of all McKuen poems. Come to think of it, it may
the the longest poem period. It's way too long to publish in one Flight
Plan so I've taken Larry's advice and have split it over two days.
The poem is
in five parts and today we'll
look at parts 1 & 2. Make sure you come back tomorrow for the
balance and I hope you enjoy it as much as Larry and I do.
If you have
a (hopefully shorter) favorite McKuen song or poem you'd like to share
with us, drop me a line at ken@mckuen.com
and I'll make sure it's included in this column one day soon.
- Ken, Johannesburg,
November 15
IS THERE LIFE AFTER TOWER RECORDS?
for Russ Solomon
It had gotten
on to five
o'clock.
She drop stitched traffic
down the Strip,
where everywhere a different tuner
tuned to a different FM band
rose and mixed
and clanged against
a different Southern California
wall.
Top-down weather made
the sounds more howl than cry.
And each is paramount
as Paramount once was.
In front of her
she saw his face
his eyes inside his lookback mirror.
As descriptions go, he was ordinary.
As ordinary as the stars
spilling dust from other worlds
then coming back
for second stardust strafe and drop.
He was as plain as gossamer must be
to secondary angels.
He smiled, she thought,
or anyway looked back
and caught her staring
past his shoulders
trying hard to see
straight through him to forever.
And at once the traffic
and the hour was unimportant.
Nothing. In perspective.
The car in front of her
moved forward
and she was pulling up
beside the man astride
the gleaming two-wheel steed.
Closer. One long sideways,
heart-stop, close-up.
In this what Continental thunder
means,
arriving at the right place
and on time
if only once in what we call
forever ?
And now she knew
what God looked like
and why His image
had never been explained.
God threaded traffic
to the next stoplight
and as He did,
the silver spokes of his machine
threw rainbows in the sunset
half down Sunset
bounced off fenders
to wide windscreen,
ricocheting from back bumper
up to front
polished hubcaps,
dry-humped radiator decoration.
A thousand stars spread out
and caused as many halos
birthed another thousand,
thousand stars
that split into long lines
of dots and dashes,
S.O.S's, distress signals,
warm caresses.
Incredible illuminations.
Where Sunset turns
and forks
divides -
right for pop, left for classics,
God made a wide turn
into pop parking lot
as suddenly as Deities
turn tricks to converts.
She watched resigned
as if confirming
that all her life was being spent
in limbo
the wrong,
and never made right lane.
God was into pop.
She was into classics.
- from "Intervals", 1986
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TOWER RECORDS
continued |
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Two
They grind perfectly.
In balance always.
Move in closer,
listen - hear the cylinders
clicking inside
well-oiled inner cylinders.
Sleek and slick,
perfect wheels in perfect motion,
their precision every bit as good
or better
than the not-so-public
public works
in fire hazard factories
on the edge
of hidden business districts.
These friendly robots
in designer jeans
and ties too narrow
to be tied just right
have heard mind-mending music.
Each has seen
the Tower beacon light
that draws them forward
like the final candle
on the last, long earthbound
night
before the sudden
exclamation point
preceding blindness.
Not to follow
this young piper
in the red and yellow suit
who beams the true light,
pipes the noise
is to miss not just the
newest
Mozart Angel Compact Disc
but something social
that once gone
does not come back
the same way twice.
Some women
and some younger girls
track time sans telephone
and clock,
they chart the hours
by how many business cards
each collects, exchanges
on nightly Tower Records
trips.
Some men come from
Bakersfield
some drive all night
from Salt Lake City,
Phoenix, Reno, Abilene,
to browse, meditate,
worship at the L.A. shrine.
They say the queue
at Tower 1 in New York City
goes half around the block.
What discotheque or synagogue
could boast such popularity,
such as ever-constant, faithful
flock ?
See them move
between the aisles,
pathways so narrow
that passing past another
is bold adventure,
thrilling drawing-in
of breath and stomach.
And in between the aisles,
the islands back to back
that hide the million dreams
inside
bright jackets;
well-turned sleeves
plastic fused so fast
it must be cut apart
to reach the shiny metal hopes,
the deep dark vinyl of delight
whose inner grooves can only be
decoded by the diamond needle,
narrow beam of laser light.
Piano, piano, dolce Carlotta,
as Hildegard of Bingen's song
pipes softly overhead.
Listen easy as the alto sax
skips down between
the bars of Gershwin's
Second Rhapsody
to freedom.
It could be
there will one day be
Towers on the edge
of every continent.
Great meccas where
the lost, the lonesome souls
caught in between the coasts,
in what each nation
proudly terms its heartland,
can come and trade
those bushelsful of unmade music
locked away restrictions,
and unlocked-at-last anxiety.
For now,
the coasts of North America
are the only ports
equipped with Towers.
All across the land
in summertime or chilly winter
you can see bold stickers
on late-model foreign cars,
old Ford trucks,
and Iacocca's pride and joys,
I left my heart in San Francisco's
Tower,
I gave my heart away
in the L.A. Tower parking lot.
I love New York's Tower.
- from "Intervals", 1986 |
