Bob Dylan turned 80 and all the articles came out
calling him the defining artist of his generation
and I was like, blah, blah, he’s fine.
Then Julia read a book by Ethan Hawke
(yeah, I don’t know why either), and the back flap,
beside an odd photo of him in a smoking jacket,
said he was the defining artist of his generation,
and I was like, wow, now we’re really getting off track.
Then I saw an advertisement for a documentary
about Moby, and as if that wasn’t bad enough,
it called him the defining artist of his generation,
which made me wonder what language even meant anymore.
If I threw a party the house band would be:
Corin, Carly, Adrian, Chris, and Steve. RC and Lucia
would MC. Dave and Jill and Lara would write poems
for the occasion, Justin and Dia would do stand-up,
Randall would be filming – Moby, Ethan Hawke,
yes, even Dylan, would have shit all to do with it.
Friends, I’ve missed you.
Soon I’ll get your stories in real time, from your actual mouths.
Get ready to dress up, step over your threshold,
and come dance on my porch.
The world, apparently, has lost its compass.
What a gift it’ll be for my neighbours,
to get to hear your genius for free.
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