Well, he started collecting old issues of Rolling Stones. Said
they were better. I read through like Shiva to see destroyed bands, has-beens.
What the trees said when all this was printed: I really like that Fall Out Boy.
They might last forever. As long as pinecones fall to earth. There's still a
pinecone with your mother's name on it, you know. In an old box in the
basement, waiting for gold glitter, to become a Christmas ornament in sixth
grade. Better than the pomander from third grade. That year, we had a boy in
class, he threw his desk over and kicked the radiator. We kept our eyes on the
models of the galaxy we were building. Even then, as he passed in righteous
fury, out the door into the hall, where the lights were always left low, we
dreamed of other days.
The people asked for tomorrow. Can you believe that? It
makes me cry, but like Ganesh I give it to them. There are no old issues of
Rolling Stone in tomorrow; heed the warning. Take with you the pinecone, the
scent of twenty-nine million years wrapped in your hand. Ask the band to play
on. Remember third grade, for third grade will be gone tomorrow. So will the
galaxy. Not the paper one – that one is still spinning, wobbling on wire bent
by nine-year-old hands.
Whatever you collect, it will last forever, until tomorrow.
Sweet—Good—Darling,
darling,
darling.
