by Arielle Greenberg
(Almost Famous, d. Cameron Crowe, 2000)
On a chunk of gold confetti
that you push with pointed toe,
you glide around the lit-up, emptied
stadium, the songs you know
only shapes your mouth is making:
leftovers, as you are, too.
Cashed for a sixer, cast-off, broken,
what’s the band to do with you
when the wives join up in Cleveland?
Pack you in that lamb’s fur coat.
Dump you in a suburb, leave you,
Quaaludes slipping down your throat.
To love the music like a groupie—
we all want to lick that edge.
Be seen, on stage, be fucked, be trumped.
Be almost with them, almost dead.
Arielle Greenberg is the Resident Poet at Bright Wall/Dark Room. She is the co-author of Home/Birth: A Poemic; author of My Kafka Century and Given; and co-editor of three anthologies, including Gurlesque. She lives in Maine and teaches in the community and in Oregon State University-Cascades' MFA; she is currently teaching a course in American cinema to insightful students at the Maine State Prison enrolled through the University of College at Rockland (hi, guys!). Arielle writes a regular column on contemporary poetics for the American Poetry Review.