I could write a poem about Thelonius Monk by saying how he bent
notes, or how Uri Geller bent spoons, how his jagged rhythms took
you by surprise, how it’s hard to believe these phrases, or by trying
to imitate his sound using words, or by driving slowly on the highway
at the beginning of winter but I won’t. Instead, I’m writing about a night
far away from anything New York, Rocky Mount, or North Carolina,
a night filled with plums and avocadoes, some kind of purple or green
light showing through the fog so it’s hard to see where we’re going
or who’s at the wheel. It’s not me anymore, obviously. Bye-bye
to all that ice, and good-bye to the rest of the year and good-riddance
to the goddess of opposite only marriage. I promise, to try to pull
the power from white-power radio by acting like less of a dick.
Don’t look in the mirror Angelina Jolie you’ll be frightened,
don’t eat the heads off of bats Susan Boyle: fly, be free of the
leeches, be wary of bad hats and smelly white feet. Thelonius
Monk was not driving a truck when he composed “Ruby, My Dear.”
I am not driving a beat-up Oldsmobile. I am not re-writing King Lear.
Photo by Jose Padua. Jose Padua is co-author of the blog Shenandoah Breakdown.