Her Famous Green Guitar Picks
1.
She tosses them out to the crowd like after-dinner mints
at the end of her most devastating performances. She’s a little bit
crazy like that.
One went streaking over my head like a drone
gone AWOL on Adderall.
She otherwise lines them up on the neck of the mike
like rounds of ammunition,
or even the worrisome serpent of old.
A lot of people, by the way, don’t believe
in the mystical hoodoo I’m helpless
not to ponder. I don’t either. It’s not a matter of belief.
It’s a matter of frequent
flyer miles, yeah, and listening, and pining,
and like. Which can apparently go on forever.
like the worrisome serpent of old
*
I imagine a boomer couple just retired, maybe,
local hipsters geeking out on a scene,
or more likely some good and kind kid from two states away
(she came wearing the exact floppy fedora
her favorite singer wears), amazed now to snag the prize from the air
and hold it gingerly in the palm of her hand
like the final word, or a key.
Then remembering she can’t remember
what it’s supposed to unlock.
*
And green. Green. I have to keep saying it, I want to hug the damned thing,
I suppose so I do not forget. I mean verdigris, verdant,
viridescent. Maybe punky? Maybe park? Like little pieces of Eden
we managed to smuggle out.
Like and unlike
the way people saved bricks and even pieces of bricks
even pieces of pieces you get the idea
from the Berlin wall.
Maybe good?
2.
Sometimes, when they flash like tiny green birds
above our heavy hominoid brains,
so freely,
so easily,
at the end of a show,
we can’t even.
Why we long to see her live and on stage
in Charleston, in October, during a flood.
In Fort Lauderdale spring, just before all the maniac
collegians make the kitschiest
golden calf ever. And Atlantic City in lights. The lights.
Just the lights.
Because we crave that feeling of the moment going.
The heart-twist of not keeping it.
The heart-sink of no
such luck.
No story; no grand story, certainly.
Just a crack in a voice
making grief absurdly beautiful.
3.
She will of course glance down, now and again,
at a chord she is making or about to make
on the neck of the guitar, like touching a foot to the earth for balance
or buoyancy before launching again.
While actual silence itself
she works like a pro, a very maestro of light, prolonging
one unexpectedly there, and again further there—
in “Follow,” perhaps; “Hard Way Home”; then “Blood Muscle Skin
and Bone”—
zeroing in on “The Eye”—
for encore the famous “Hallelujah,” practically blistering with irony…