Brian Wilson

brianwilson_

I remember California sand

soft, moist, under my bare feet.

That tugging pull of the ocean,

Pacific green and cold on my ankles,

eroding the foundations on which

I stood.

Out there, under bright sun and

royal blue skies, is the mythology

of the surfer and the beach bum and

the casual swimmer.

I collected bird feathers and seashells,

watched with interest as ships plied

the harbor.

I watched as light glittered off

of the huge white dome across the

way, leaving ripples of golden sun

on the water-dazzling.

Off in the distance a horn wailed

echoes ringing through the towers

behind me.

Beach boys and girls flashed smiles at

each other, walking to the shower stalls

to rinse away salt water and a billion grains

of white stardust, to cleanse their bodies

now that their minds were free.

Nearby cars startup and convertibles lower

their tops, music blares from speakers as wheels

turn.

The voices create complex harmonies, layers

of instruments twirl around each other

in stunning consonance.

A lone voice rises above in a startling

falsetto, like some ethereal creature

from a passion play.

In this voice is plaintive emotionalism

and in the melody  is genius.

No matter the song or the less-then-poetry

lyrics – you can feel exactly what he

wants you to feel.

He was sacrificed on a stylobate made of dollar

bills and vinyl records, his voice so original

that the world stopped spinning long

enough for it to hear, if not to care.

But he was auditory stimulation among

a hundred thousand other singers vying

for our attention.

The sun sets on the coast. The sand is warm

from the sunshine and the ocean too.

The breezes smell of brine and the tiny sound

of baby breakers chuckle gently

as they fall against the land.

Night is here and the city behind me beckons.

Life goes on in the crowded streets

and tomorrow promises

to be another perfect day.

 

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