The problem with Supertramp induced time travel
while in cyclical, physical motion
at the moment of all things breaking open my head
and current heads of state
is a sudden urgency to write
because it’s the sound of 40 years ago
and it's a red tide: swarms of slippery, stinking fish
that keep washing up, goners all of them,
rotting in the hot Pacific shimmer. And my dead brother
is there with me at the edge of the wet: moonlit,
the stiff bodies, spilled quivers of small, silvery arrows
pointing every wack direction around us, their stilled eyes
wide in the sand, schools of broken clocks, the guts
splayed and glinting and somehow we're in sync,
singing the same refrain under our breath:
Dreamer, you know you are a dreamer
along spiraling jetties of silence
and the cold crack of waves, stoned on weed
but not too high to feel our muddied minds and feet
moving inside whatever plots we were churning,
whatever in our youth and now
will turn out to be the Crime Of The Century.