Bruce Morton

Rock of Ages

Vintage nostalgia never trumps neuralgia.
The romance and prance of back when 
Becomes that slow shuffle dance of now.

We yearn to hear and feel what we saw then.
But the old rocker creaks when he moves,
Theatric magic become geriatric tragic.

He still plays some of that old-time music,
Any which way he chooses it, even if he loses it.
No matter what booze, powder, or pill he did

The music remains forever young, but
Not so the hand that slides down the frets
Tying knots in the chords of nostalgia.

We may sing what we sang but what
Is past has passed and can never be
Reversed even if it be rerehearsed.

It is a dance parody, lame histrionic, riffs
Suspended between comedic and tragedic,
What was crescendo become diminuendo.

The mic is now a crutch, the prop that props
Projecting hollow echoes. No truth in songs
Of youth grown long in tooth. The beat goes on.


Tripped
  “They paved paradise, put up a parking lot.” Joni Mitchell

We have the stairway to heaven
And then there is the road to hell.
These are theological constructs,
Engineered by civil imagineers,
Pouring their concrete hope, or
Laying asphalt fears. Exits shrug, 
Rise or plunge without shoulders.
There are no stop signs nor signals,
No one yields at the intersection 
Of sunset and divine, or dead ends.

We drive through, stay the course 
Until there is the inevitable rotary,
A vortex on the way to purgatory.
Detours. No matter how many times 
We enter destination, the navigator 
Provides the same routing, forever
Recalculating. When we arrive, I know
The parking lot will be full; we shall
Cruise Dante’s circles for eternity,
Or until the fuel gauge reads empty.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His collection, Planet Mort, is just published by FootHills Publishing. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.